


The Fell Clutch of Circumstance

by endtable_fororphans



Series: Survival & Sacrifice [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, F/M, Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2020-11-26 23:14:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20938358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endtable_fororphans/pseuds/endtable_fororphans
Summary: A little part of her stirred with anticipation for the unknown, for a real journey over hills and valleys and mountains... But remembering she would be led instead of leading herself left bitterness and resentment where optimism should be.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen is summoned to Greagoir's office immediately after Solona's Harrowing.

Ser Greagoir’s office door boomed shut, and a brittle silence settled all through the chamber as the echo died away, giving rise to the thundering of Cullen’s pulse, his stuttering breath, the maelstrom of thoughts and feelings he was still too terrified to name. He could only hold on, digging his toes into his boots to keep grounded, forcing his chin up to remain proudly at attention while he waited for the hammer to fall. 

But none came. The moment passed (or it could have been an age—time was still not behaving him), and ser Greagoir was still facing away from Cullen, staring intently at the Templar insignia wrought in iron on the door hardly a foot in front of him. He released a caged breath, but only a shred of the tension left his shoulders as his head bowed.

“I told you not to get involved,” ser Greagoir began, his tone leaden and bleak, “and you got involved.”

Fear, ice-cold and overwhelming, drew a stinging trail down Cullen’s spine and settled in his gut. He braced himself for rage, for retribution—this was a man who threatened a captain with a court-martial for not tying his sash correctly when the Grand Cleric came for an inspection. What would he do to an insubordinate corporal in love with a mage under his charge?

But there was… nothing. Ser Greagoir turned and shambled towards his desk as if Cullen wasn’t even there, steel fingers pinching the bridge of his nose like he was determined to bleed.

His hand dropped, and the Knight-Commander suddenly looked every inch his age, startling Cullen out of his guarded posture. Ser Greagoir had always seemed as stalwart and timeless as Kinloch itself, but as he absently removed his gauntlets and laid them carefully on the cot beside his armor stand, a little part of him eroded away, crumbling under the strain of decades spent in constant vigilance. 

Cullen’s pulse slowed as the ser Greagoir laid aside the weight of his office, revealing the battered countenance his embellished armor usually disguised. With every piece he removed—plate, mail, leather—he shrunk further and further until he was hardly recognizable, clad as he was now in a worn, but well-maintained gambeson that looked older than Cullen but twice as strong.

He scrubbed a hand down his lined face to suppress a yawn as he slumped into the high-backed chair that rose behind mountains of neatly stacked scrolls and letters.

He wordlessly cleared a narrow space between two piles, simultaneously pulling out a fresh sheet of parchment so precisely, the action was almost graceful. Without looking, he plucked up his quill, dipped it, and began to write. 

The scratching of the metal nib was the only sound for a long while, save for the roaring between Cullen’s ears that began to build again with nothing but the gentle scraping and his own unraveling thoughts on which to focus.

What could have been an eternity later, Ser Greagoir cleared his throat. “Effective immediately,” he began, still writing without interruption, “you are confined to quarters until another tower requests your transfer.”

Cullen’s head snapped to ser Greagoir as the floor fell away beneath him. 

All his hopes, all his worries and fears… All  _ coherent thought _ imploded as a fire lit behind his eyes and blinded him to everything except that one word, pounding into his raw consciousness like a hammer in the void.

_ Transfer. _

Suddenly, he was bare-headed, two paces closer to the desk, trying to crush the helmet in his hands and fighting dozens of protests rising in his throat like bile, trapped by his clenched jaw and the Knight-Commander’s gaze flashing up like a razor under his chin.

“You’ll remain silent and  _ grateful _ unless you want to be discharged altogether,” Ser Greagoir hardly whispered, the threat shining like steel in his eyes. It cut through the blind panic, reducing any residual joy left from the last hour to ash, drifting away in the silence. 

All that was left was the truth and its consequence, written as plainly as words on a page—that a single step and a handful of words had derailed his entire future. 

_ Congratulations, Mage Amell. _

He still felt them resonating in his chest, and he knew he meant them with everything he had, but now, outside of that clandestine moment hardly an hour ago, they just seemed so foolish.

No,  _ he  _ had been foolish. Not just tonight, when he willingly set aside his purpose in the Harrowing chamber, and not just two months ago, when he allowed her magic to slip under his skin and heal him in more ways than one, or when she pulled his lips down to hers and he didn’t stop her.

A single step, a timid cough. Words tripping over jangled nerves in an empty classroom on a golden spring afternoon— _ he’d _ been the fool at the very beginning, and every day since. His head dropped in shame. The full weight, the full reality that dozens of tiny actions—of  _ wrong choices _ —had perpetuated a single, misguided desire crashed down on him like a bucket of ice over a fever dream. And to claim that she’d goaded him in any way, as though he wasn’t fully complicit, as though she were some vile maleficar dripping poison in his ear... It was unconscionable; time and again  _ he alone _ was presented with choices, and time and again  _ he _ chose wrong.

He opened his eyes, and his gaze met the helmet still clutched between his hands, glinting like a beacon through the night. It was time that he woke up, that he paid for his lack of judgement. That he  _ learned. _

He let out a shaky breath. “Yes, ser.” The words stuck, catching on the lump in his throat as he shifted the helmet in his grip to tuck it securely under his arm. 

Ser Greagoir looked up from his parchment, taken aback by Cullen’s acceptance. “I’ll ensure you’re given a position suited to your ability,” he offered.

Cullen could only nod his gratitude, his eyes respectfully downcast. 

“It’ll be a kinder lot than I was given,” Ser Greagoir muttered gruffly to himself as he shifted in his chair and continued writing.

Slowly, like a secret buried in a mire, the afterthought floated to the surface of Cullen’s fragile consciousness. The weight that had been pressing on ser Greagoir’s sloping shoulders began to take shape, and Cullen, ravenous for certainty, for solid ground, wouldn’t— _ couldn’t _ suffer an unfinished story. 

“A… ser?”

Greagoir’s gaze abruptly unfocused from his writing as the quill halted in midair. He gave a short sigh of resignation, realizing he’d overextended himself. “You aren’t the only man here," he slowly began, his tone measured, "to have been tempted by a pretty mage’s smile.” 

A single, choked gasp left Cullent’s throat. It felt like the universe was conspiring to break him—Maker, hadn’t there been enough earth-shaking revelations tonight?

Greagoir glanced up again briefly, then away. He looked… almost sheepish, if Cullen believed that was possible. “We were all young once,” was all Greagoir could offer.

His guard was down. Whether by trust or sheer exhaustion, he was unarmored in more ways than one, and the unexpected vulnerability compelled Cullen to press forward. 

“What happened?” he asked, low and unobtrusively. Greagoir began twirling the quill between his fingers, looking as cornered and uneasy as an ornery child brought before a revered mother.

“She‒” he hesitated, lip curling against his teeth. A startling flurry of emotion passed over his features.

A long breath later, he began again, his voice tight and cracking under the strain. “I came forward. I confessed, and for my… honesty and loyalty, I was offered a promotion. But I was to continue serving here. At the time, I believed Knight-Commander Robard to be a paragon of mercy in this matter, but now…” Cullen’s gaze fell to where Greagoir’s thumb was worrying at the red stitching lining his opposite wrist, his expression turning more hollow with each pass. “It’s clear he intended my punishment to be lifelong.” 

Cullen’s chest felt full to bursting, but ser Greagoir remained as stoic and impassive as bedrock—how long had he lived like this? Who was she? Where is she now? Too many questions vied for control, rendering Cullen only able to stare dumbly as Greagoir’s trembling fingers stretched out to touch the parchment while he leveled a keen stare between Cullen’s eyes. “This… I am giving you a gift. Accept it as such.” 

Cullen slowly nodded again, and Greagoir leaned back into his chair, appearing satisfied with his response but shaken from revisiting the decades-old pain. 

Only there was more. Cullen could see it plainly on his face; he was only knee-deep in the story.

“What happened to her?” He thought he’d kept his voice gentle, his question kind, but Greagoir’s sword arm twitched as if it was a lash over his shoulders. 

Another measuring look in Cullen’s direction, more deliberation behind steel eyes before Greagoir glanced down again.

“She said yes,” he confided softly to his knees. 

Cullen’s brow furrowed deeper, his confusion and curiosity piqued to unforeseen heights—it still wasn’t enough. “To…another man—?” 

“To a  _ demon,”  _ Greagoir spat, his expression mired by bitterness and grief. He was flayed open now, raw and exposed by the interrogation, but only gave Cullen a moment for the shock and remorse to begin to settle. 

“‘A spirit of faith’, she claims, pulling her back from death,” Greagoir seethed, not bothering to hide the venom is his tone. “But you know as well as I that  _ spirits _ do not seek the waking world, and the ones that do are hardly benevolent. So we watched. And we waited. And still… there is nothing. Not yet. And no matter what I’ve said—what I  _ think…  _ she asserts that her mind is her own. I can only pray the Maker never sees fit to test us in that regard.”

Greagoir closed his eyes with a short, forced sigh, withdrawing back into himself so swiftly, his lined face appeared hollow, carved deeper with more profound meaning. Cullen was floored. Every line in his body was drawn tight as a bowstring; thoughts slipped like ice through his numbed fingers. He became dimly aware of the quill scratching again, pulling him out of the chaotic tangle of emotion he’d been lost in since Greagoir first admitted his indiscretion.

The parchment was signed with a sharp flourish and folded with a crisp, masterful hand. Greagoir waited for for the wax to melt with a patience usually only seen in the tranquil, watching the candle flame dance under the spoon with rapt attention.

“I may be made of stone,” Greagoir intoned with a knowing, humorless smirk as he poured the wax onto the parchment and stamped it with his signet ring, “but… you’ll find I’m more sympathetic than most. I hope you will take comfort in knowing that… had Mage Amell fallen, I was prepared to strike the blow myself,” he met Cullen’s incredulous stare. “And I would find no pleasure in doing so.”

Cullen stood on legs as shaky as a calf’s. The attempt at comfort was… disconcerting. “I… ah—”

“Just... go get some rest, Rutherford,” ser Greagoir bluntly cut in, gesturing with the freshly minted order in his hand. “I’ll have this sent out in a few hours.”

Greagoir’s casual instruction shifted the conversation back into a cadence Cullen was familiar with, but all this new knowledge, Greagoir’s admission that he would have… it made everything dissonant, clashing with the rhythm he once knew. He didn’t understand the steps anymore.

He drew himself back to attention awkwardly, like he was still a recruit unused to the weight of the armor. “....Ser,” was the only reply he could manage. 

Greagoir’s response was cold, distant, and bereft. 

“Dismissed.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a (hopefully interesting) retelling of the Mage origin story.

_ Heard they took you last night. 2 pm at the spot? I need a favor. _

_ -Jowan _

She sighed, rubbed at her temple—a favor already _ ?  _ What could he possibly need? 

She had only herself to blame for this—she’d been indulging him for years, letting him lean on her when he was struggling. She’d hoped that he would eventually grow out of his dependence, learn to stand on his own, but it just didn’t happen. And it kept not happening, and she just kept letting him lean on her anyway. 

She grimaced, shutting her eyes against Jowan’s untidy scrawl. Her patience for his desperate but well-meaning entreaties had worn  _ so very thin _ over the last few months, however… she supposed those entreaties were all born of friendship, one he obviously very much wanted to keep alive. She owed him the dignity of a conversation, even if was only to offer a polite “no”. 

She shuddered with guilt as she stood—she couldn’t remember their last real conversation, but any further thought on the matter was derailed at the shimmer of gold on her dresser—a new set of robes dyed such a bright yellow, they had initially hidden in the sunshine.

_ Congratulations, Mage Amell. _

Her heart twisted as a vision resurfaced—a lone Templar keeping his vigil in defiance, standing resplendent as the early dawn light laid pearl along his helm, his pauldrons, the scabbard at his side. He was sheathed in steel, draped in rich velvet to hide his identity, but she had known him the instant he didn’t heed the Knight-Commander’s call.

Her suspension of belief had lain in pieces on the ground, and if she hadn’t already been on her knees, she would have collapsed under equal parts relief and devastation. It was a wonder she even managed a weak smile for him, a small attempt to convey that she was… at least  _ mostly _ alright.

Maker. She hoped  _ he _ was alright. There would be consequences for this, certainly. His actions, however innocuous, had surely all but revealed their… relationship. Such as it was. 

Her head spun. She had too many open pages, too many loose ends for someone so close to earning freedom. She forced a breath; there was still time—time for goodbyes and time to process all the sentiment they came with.

She shoved the emotion and uncertainty away and left for the apprentice baths for what, Maker willing, would be the very last time. 

The gold willow weave that was now the mark of her rank shimmered like the veil itself under the lyrium lamps in the baths, reflected off the water like a sunrise as she washed away the little girl she used to be. Their structure was the same, but the material was decidedly more decadent, ghosting over her arms like a stolen touch, hugging her waist in a way that was both new and familiar. She couldn’t help the bitter pride that welled up in her heart as she looked at her reflection, knowing that her success was built on the bones of countless apprentices before her. 

And she certainly couldn’t help the memory of a voice, deadened by steel but galvanizing in its conviction, that rang through her so true and right, it ached.

She was ready. 

* * *

The journey from her old quarters up to the great hall was mired by well-wishers and awed apprentices alike, and while she appreciated all the sentiment, she was grateful for the secluded alcove that had belonged to her and Jowan since their first weeks here.

Back then, it had been a retreat for two fearful children who were overwhelmed with the newness of everything, of wave after wave of unfamiliar faces, not all of which were kind. He’d stuck his head in as she hid one day, hugging her knobby knees under her gaunt chin. She’d been here hardly a fortnight—just an anxious mess of skin and bones that had never known a proper meal, though that was no fault of Madame’s; her chantry stipend was never quite enough to feed the literal crowd of children she had been determined to care for.

But Jowan—unthreatening, round-cheeked Jowan—with mischief in his eyes and a loaf of stolen bread in his hands, offered her food, unintrusive company, and her first real friendship.

Being here now, in her fine golden robes, was surreal. She never thought she’d ever feel out of place here, where so many jokes, worries, and stories had been shared. Where, though she’d never known what it felt like, she thought she’d found a brother. 

She was so lost in nostalgia, she didn’t hear him approach. 

“Oh, you’re here!” relief dripped from him like the sweat that shone on his brow. “I was… worried you wouldn’t come.” 

Though that concern was very nearly reality, his halting tone and general uneasiness twisted the guilt under her skin his message had put there. She affected as genuine a smile as she could muster, hoping that a welcoming attitude would calm him enough to let him ask his question so she could turn him down and be done with this. 

“No, I’m here. What do you need?” To her own ears, her voice was sickly sweet, but Jowan seemed calmed by her gentleness, if only minutely. He still shuffled his feet, tweaked his fingers, readied to speak and lost the nerve to do so half a dozen times before Solona’s concern peaked.

“Jowan, are you… alright?”

He huffed in frustration, breaking out of the nervous energy. “No, I’m not alright!” She froze in at his outburst. The trembling lines of his body went rigid, pulled taut as his eyes darkened and resentment began to spill forward. “And you’d know that if you’d spoken to me  _ at all _ in the last two months!”

She deserved it, she knew. She deserved every ounce of burning ire he flung at her, and the guilt he laid earlier went up in flames like an oil slick.

“I’m sorry,” she replied with quiet sincerity; it felt like she was pulling it out of her bones.

He relaxed a bit at her earnestness, but his breathing was still uneven and shallow as he searched for the words to respond.

“No, I’m—” he sighed, so obviously fraught just under the surface. “This isn’t… This isn’t turning out as I planned.” 

A breath of laughter left her before she could stop it, but she let the smirk stay as she replied, “Oh, you  _ planned _ this?” 

“I thought it would make this easier, but…” he started to explain, wringing his hands so violently, she thought he might bruise. She’d never seen him this frantic before. 

Finally, a firm press of a thumb into his palm seemed to center him, and his breath was measured and controlled as he exhaled and closed his eyes. “I—I think… I’m going to be made tranquil.”

For a split-second, she believed him, was taken in by the certainty shining in his eyes and the way his brows knitted together as he looked up at her before she remembered that this is what he did—what he’d been doing to her for years. He’d come with an alarmist cry for help, coercing her into doing it by waving an exaggerated punishment for his failure in front of him like a banner as an incentive, hanging on her friendship and generosity with a death grip instead of learning to walk on his own. She’d attempt to teach him, to show him where both his shortcomings and successes were, and how he could solve the problem by himself. But he’d regale her with praise and affection, appeal to her pride, convince her that he’d never be able to do it on his own, that if she didn’t do this thing for him  _ right now,  _ he’d be penalized.

She’d fallen for it too many times before she understood how toxic it was, how much time and energy and focus he’d stolen from her while only reciprocating with an apology and a promise to never do it again. In hindsight, that was what rankled the most—that his promises routinely became lies. If cutting him off made her a “bad friend”, so be it. Jowan’s feelings had meant little to her with freedom on the line. 

But the invocation of tranquility—widely regarded as a fate worse than death—kept her from turning him down flat and made her wonder.

_ “Why?” _ It came out harsher than she intended, and he withdrew—cast his gaze down at his hands again and kept wringing.

“I think it’s why I haven’t been called for the Harrowing yet,” he murmured sheepishly.

“You haven’t been called because you haven’t finished your thesis yet,” she stressed, annoyance coming through despite her attempts to stay neutral. “The seniority doesn’t make apprentices tranquil because they got  _ impatient. _ They’ll call you when you’re ready.”

“You don’t really believe it’s up to them, do you?” He sneered, and she crossed her arms defensively—the nervousness had burnt away, withering before the anger lighting up his eyes. “It’s not up to just the mages, it’s the  _ Templars _ who hold the power here—who  _ judge us. _ They’re the ones who hold the brand; they decide who gets it.”

He took another breath, pushed down the sudden rage. This wasn’t just nerves or anxiety, this was  _ paranoia _ . The bitterness was overwhelming and unpleasantly familiar.

“You’re starting to sound like Anders,” she warned, grim and unflinching as stone.

He rushed through his response. “Well, maybe Anders has the right idea.”

He leveled a stare between her eyes and her brow furrowed; he couldn’t be thinking… He couldn’t—it was  _ impossible,  _ he would be found out immediately. If Anders hadn’t gotten out by now, no one could—he was serving in solitary for his _ sixth _ failed escape attempt. Jowan still looked at her pointedly, and her purpose here clicked into place. 

“No,” she stated firmly; she would not get roped into this. She took a step back to distance herself, but Jowan kept coming, protests and self-pity in his outstretched hands.

“No,” she said even more vehemently. She put a hand out between them and her voice rose before she could pull it down to a compressed whisper. “No, Jowan, I am  _ not going to help you escape the Circle.”  _

He threw his arms down in frustration, hands curled into fists. “So you’ll just let them turn me into a vegetable?” 

“They _ won’t—”  _

“Don’t  _ I _ deserve freedom as much as you?” 

“You deserve to work for it, to  _ earn _ it! It’s meaningless if you just  _ take it! _ If you run, you’ll be just another apostate, you’ll be living as a fugitive in a world that hates you—that’s not  _ freedom,  _ Jowan.”

“I have a—” 

“No! You can’t honestly—” it was just too much, she had to fight through the climbing emotion. “You’re asking me to help you steal something I’ve worked for for  _ years.  _ I’m not risking my neck for this; the answer is  _ no.” _

She made to brush past him without a second glance, but he blocked her retreat, his hand gripped her opposite forearm with surprising strength. Her mana thrummed, static raised the hairs on the back of her neck—she could smite him on the spot if she thought she’d get away with it.

He leaned in, pressed his chest into her shoulder—an entirely unwelcome intrusion. She gathered her magic, twitched her fingers to start a glyph under his feet—something to restrain, not harm. 

“I know about your  _ Templar,” _ he whispered, and her fingers froze; any knowledge of glyphs, of any spell whatsoever, was wiped clean from her mind. A cold sweat broke over her shoulders and down her back as twin blooms of rage and guilt opened, bright and aching in her chest. 

“I didn’t want to do this,” he said, and at least had the temerity to look contrite. “I need you to know that.”

He paused as if giving her the opportunity to offer an explanation, perhaps the dignity of a confession, but she had no words, nothing at all save contempt. She watched with satisfaction as his courage withered a shade under her ire.

“Meet me in the chapel in an hour, or I will go to the Knight-Commander.”

* * *

Hadley sighed—he was  _ tired.  _

It wasn’t the night shift dragging him down; he’d gotten used to that months ago when the Knight-Commander required an officer to supervise the patrols and postings while he himself could rest. Hadley had practically jumped at the opportunity—it had all the markings of a test, the kind that preceded a promotion.

He’d expected a quiet job: making sure his subordinates fulfilled their duties, maintaining order, and perhaps occasionally apprehending mages breaching curfew. Things had been quiet in Kinloch for many years—he had no reason to expect anything exciting.

This past day, however… he figured he’d earned a break. The postings were all covered; no one could fault him for needing a few hours off. 

First, there was that Harrowing. He’d endured dozens of them, but for whatever reason, Apprentice Amell’s had lasted longer than any he could remember; she’d been under over two hours, which—in his experience—was typically beyond the point of no return. And while Hadley, too, had felt a deep relief when she came out of the Fade fully human, it was obvious to anyone with a pulse that Rutherford’s feelings on the matter ran significantly deeper. 

The implications of that particular revelation weighed heavily on him and made his sleep fitful when it finally came. The Knight-Commander wasn’t known to be merciful in his discipline, but while fraternization with a mage was indeed a grave accusation, Hadley would eat his shirt if Rutherford had actually done something meriting a punishment more severe than simply being confined to quarters.

Secondly, Ser Greagoir had roused him in the middle of the afternoon with an urgent matter, which felt equivalent to turning someone out of bed in the dead of night to write up reports in triplicate. But that the Knight-Commander had come to  _ him _ showed trust and dependency, and Hadley wanted that promotion.

Thirdly, the “urgent matter” turned out to be an ambush for a maleficar trying to escape the tower. While ser Greagoir had said during his briefing that the target was accompanied by only a chantry initiate, another entirely unexpected face appeared, the very mage whose Harrowing he’d attended not even a decent night’s rest ago.

Words had been said, accusations were thrown, and before any formal arrests or investigations could be made, Apprentice Ried had pulled out a knife and condemned himself to tranquility at the  _ very _ least. To their credit, the two women had been utterly shocked—it had been obvious even in the brief second before the silence hit them that they had no idea he was a maleficar.

While the initiate had been only slightly dazed by it, the two mages had crumpled under the silence like spun glass under a boulder. It hit Ried the hardest—he’d be under for a few hours or so—but Amell proved difficult to rouse, standing as close as she was to the blast. Greagoir had sent the majority of the assembled Templars away with Ried but ordered Hadley to help Amell up for questioning. 

Her knees kept giving out as he guided her forward with a hand on her elbow, but she stared down the Knight-Commander with a surprising amount of dignity and pride, just as fearless as she had been last night. Hadley couldn’t help but admire her nerve—she didn’t so much as flinch under ser Greagoir’s outrage or censure, even when his condemnation turned almost petty.

Irving had tried to mount a defense—gave her an opportunity to mitigate her guilt by asking if she’d been coerced in any way. She said nothing, however, and only Hadley saw the slight twitch to the corner of her mouth revealing that perhaps she  _ had _ been an unwilling participant in all of this.

But Hadley  _ wanted that promotion, _ so he said nothing. And for whatever reason, that choice stuck with him. Even now, in his quiet bunk, he wrestled with it.

But then the most unexpected thing of all had happened—a  _ Warden _ appeared out of nowhere, swooped down like the griffon on his badge, and conscripted Mage Amell right out from under the Knight-Commander. Greagoir had spluttered, nearly lost his temper and all but forbade her to leave without answering for her crime, but Irving had reminded him—rather smugly, in Hadley’s opinion—that she was now  _ officially _ out of his reach. 

What had been more troubling, however, was Amell’s reaction—Hadley knew that mages desired their freedom more than anything else, and he’d figured Amell would be no different, but instead of reacting to the conscription with joy or gratitude as maybe others would, she’d frozen, and her once-confident expression had given over to dread.

And before any more words could be uttered, she had been led away by the old elven enchanter (for the life of him, Hadley could never remember his name), and he had been left to disperse the small crowd that had gathered as ser Greagoir stormed off. The mages had scattered readily, but before Hadley had even made it back to quarters, more than one young Templar was nipping at his heels, begging for information. 

At that point, Hadley had been beyond exhausted, and amount of time before his actual shift began was waning as quickly as his composure, but he'd indulged the underlings anyway—things had been quiet in Kinloch for years, after all, and an actual maleficar staging an escape was far more  _ exciting _ than anything the newer Templars had yet encountered. 

He was midway through the tale when, over their shoulders, Hadley met the wide, panicked gaze of Cullen Rutherford, who had apparently been spending his first day of house arrest attempting to write a letter. Hadley chose his words carefully, but at the mention of the Warden, of conscription, Rutherford suddenly rose from his table and stalked away, disrupting the pile of crumpled parchment with ink-stained fingers and wearing a manic expression that practically screamed, “I’m about to do something stupid”. 

He almost ignored him, but Rutherford was a good man, a good Templar, and Hadley was too altruistic for his own good as well as too cranky and  _ done _ with being awake he couldn’t be bothered to care about protocol. So he hatched an even more stupid plan, and pushed past the gaggle of Templars to the armory after Rutherford, flashing his lieutenant’s badge to ward off followers.

Rutherford had only just shrugged on his gambeson when Hadley entered but froze like he’d been caught by a revered mother with his trousers down. It had taken an annoying amount of coaxing, but in Rutherford’s defense, Hadley would have been slow to trust a superior offering to assist in defying an even higher superior as well. 

Hadley had just two requests: Don’t come back before two hours into the evening shift change, and  _ don’t _ do anything stupid.

* * *

A flash of lightning outside reflected sharply off the blade, flickering like fire in her shaking grip.

“Its name has been lost to history, but…” Cyrellion wrung his hands behind his sleeves. “The Dirth’ena Enasalin were thought to have named their weapons, to cherish and care for them as they would a friend, creating a warrior greater than the sum of her parts.” He kept his gaze on the length of steel he’d given her, rescued from some dark corner of the tower basement. “I’d hoped…”

He gave a weary sigh, dropping his watery gaze to the floor, and her heart broke when his breath caught just the tiniest bit. 

It was just too much. All of this was too much all at once—Jowan’s betrayal, the impact of the silence, her conscription by a warden who had known her all of two minutes before claiming her.

It was an honor, she knew, to be chosen by the wardens—an honor to have been recommended by the First Enchanter at such a young age, literally hours after her Harrowing, but… damn it all, it felt like a curse. All these accolades, the prestige she’d gathered; they were supposed to be a means to freedom, but they weighed her down like an iron shackle around her neck.

She’d come out of the turbulence of the evening battered as a branch caught in a windstorm—bruised in a way she’d never anticipated, more exhausted than she thought possible but not restful enough to sleep. 

It seemed she was about to squander one of Cyrellion’s gifts to her—a night in a vacant senior enchanter’s room before her departure at daybreak. He didn’t even need to pull any strings for it. She belonged to the wardens; asking for permission was merely a formality. 

He’d brought her to the apprentice quarters, asked an initiate to gather her things, then whispered something in Niall’s bent ear as they made their way up. To her shame, she’d disengaged with everyone and everything, allowed herself to be led like a catatonic child. He had to tell her to sit, to eat, to lie down and rest before he left to fetch something.

He’d taken care of her for so long, for so many years—he was the one who patiently coached her through her very first spells even though, at first, she hadn’t been able to summon a single element at will, only when her emotions ran high. He’d given her scrolls, books, a wealth of information to review, until one humiliating afternoon when she finally revealed she couldn’t read them. She’d already known her letters, but Cyrellion helped them form words and meaning. He’d shaped the lesson to the student, and once she’d dipped her feet into the world of reading, she’d flourished—sucked up knowledge like a hummingbird.

It would be fair to say that he’d raised her, contributed to her sense of self at least as much as Madame had. Cyrellion had been a gifted teacher, a thoughtful confidant, and a shrewd mentor despite his frailty. She felt indebted to him in a way she couldn’t even fathom.

But standing here, now, in this doorway of her borrowed room, clutching an old Tevinter talking crystal— _ sentiment _ , he’d claimed, as the crystal was defective—and this beautiful sword that reflected her element so keenly it may as well have been engraved with her name… 

She loved him, as she could never remember loving anyone else. And in suddenly facing everything he’d given her over the years, she realized she was bereft—there was no way to repay him, to even  _ begin _ to say goodbye.

The thunder rumbled in the distance, bringing her back to the present. Cyrellion gently closed his bony hands around her wrists to lower the point of the blade to the ground. Lightning struck, and he gathered her into a fragile embrace she was unable to return, paralyzed as she was by everything she was feeling and all the words she couldn’t say.

“Suledin, vhenan,” was all she could pick out of the flurry of elvhen he murmured into her shoulder.  _ Endure, my heart.  _ She only knew a smattering of elvhen, but it was enough for her to respond with a weak jest.

“Ma nuvinen, hahren,” she replied brokenly and the tiniest spark of life returned to her as he gave a weak but genuine chuckle in surprise. It was ironic that she could only hold words of a forgotten language on her tongue, that they were all that came to her through the storm.

“My dear,” he began, resting his hands on her shoulders as he pulled away, “You are  _ so strong.  _ I never want you to forget that.” 

She felt her expression crack under his admiration even though the words didn’t resonate. She wasn’t  _ strong;  _ she would never be strong again. She’d had the rug pulled out from under her and instead of riding the current, she was drowning and didn’t have the  _ strength _ to fight it.

And she knew that all this emotion—this grief, misery, and more than a little anger—would have no outlet, would only be folded over but never forgotten because even under the crushing dread of this unwanted future and the consoling hands of the person she’d come to love the most, no tears had come. They never did—she’d forgotten the last time they’d fallen.

Another flash of lightning reflected off Cyrellion’s spectacles. “No matter what happens,” he began, stronger than before but echoing around her like he was leagues away, “The Circle is your home. You will always have a place here.”

A wave of affection overtook her, and she clutched the hand at her shoulder with her own as he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, shaking loose a dry sob she’d tried to keep down.

The sudden clank of steel on stone forced them apart, but Cyrellion kept a hand on her shoulder as they turned to see the single Templar patrol rounding the hallway.

Thunder cracked like a whip, and he stopped short as his eyeless gaze scanned the hallway and targeted the two mages. An ice-blue flash then flickered over the contours of his armor as he started forward again. She hastily composed herself, prepared to speak, to defend her breach of curfew… 

But then he removed his helmet, and every word she’d ever learned—elvhen, common, or even a little orlesian—escaped her. 

There was finally silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter ended up being a bit of a clusterfuck bc I absolutely didn't want to tell the mage origin story over again, especially not from Solona's perspective. So you can assume that because she's being blackmailed here, she did not snitch on Jowan to Irving, in order to protect Cullen. And that the origin story progressed as you'd expect. Rod of fire included XD
> 
> Even though Solona has been dreaming of and working towards freedom for years, she still wanted to leave on her own terms, so being conscripted was the very last thing she wanted to happen. She didn't want it. What little she knows of the wardens could be condensed down to "they fight darkspawn and are likely to die in a hole". Yes, they value their mages, but it meant she would be confined again, only to work at the wardens' bidding instead of the chantry's. 
> 
> As always, feel free to drop a comment and tell me what you think! The next chapter will be.... interesting, let's say ;D


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen finds Solona the night before she's to leave with Duncan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note the change in the work rating!

Despite that damned, knowing smirk that Hadley had leveled at him, it wasn’t what he thought. Cullen was absolutely _not _wandering forlornly around the tower in the dead of night like a lovesick idiot. 

He surreptitiously slowed his pace as he approached an archway, cast his gaze about another enchanter’s quarters, but when he still didn’t see her lithe form, her honeyed locks fanned on a pillow, his heart threatened to implode with worry. 

Well. Perhaps Hadley had only been _half _right, but the rest of the truth was far more dire and left a foul taste in his mouth. 

A _ maleficar_—his step faltered at the simple thought, his legs suddenly weighed down by fear. An actual maleficar had attempted an escape, and Solona had helped him. 

He regained his measured pace, but instead of finding comfort in the routine, he only came up with dread. A feigned patrol was hardly any different from an honest one, and honest night patrols were famously dull—they all too easily became a breeding ground for his most unwanted thoughts, and his had already created a spiraling whirlwind that rivaled the oncoming storm in its magnitude.

Never, in his darkest, most terrible dreams did he believe she’d turn to the forbidden school, whether freely or through compulsion—it was beyond comprehension. Blood magic corrupted absolutely, twisted people into power-hungry villains until they would look upon their colleagues, friends, even family and only see a means to an end. They were the very embodiment of what the Order opposed, even more so than demons. Demons were slaves to their nature—some were hardly more than beasts, but Maleficarum, on the other hand, were the most intelligent, manipulative beings that ever walked the earth. They could befriend you with a smile and enthrall you with a thought.

He never wanted to have to include her among their ilk.

The hall flickered palely with far-off lightning, hardly bright enough to read by, but it felt like the eyes of the Maker himself were upon him as he peeked into classrooms and chambers and chapels marked with His sign.

It felt like the gravest sin ever committed to even _contemplate _if she’d been so corrupted, to entertain the possibility of her having been touched by blood magic all along, since before they even met. 

He grimaced, felt his jaw pop as his teeth ground together. It was unwanted, unworthy of him to even think it, but there it was: the choking fear that this was all a lie—that everything he’d done for her, everything he felt _right now _could be fuelling the ego of a villain.

He trudged up the next set of stairs and forced himself to remember her eyes, her smile, even just the way the air sat around her—his memory overflowed with seemingly definitive evidence of her _goodness_, of her integrity and decency. 

But as he’d learned over years of training and study, mere memory was subjective and vulnerable to manipulation no matter how truthful it felt; he couldn’t trust it completely. 

Maker, it felt utterly detestable to be so deeply suspicious of someone he claimed to love. It felt like the worst thing he’d ever done. But even worse was that for all this _certainty _in his feelings for her, this fear that time and distance wouldn’t lessen them a single degree, he had to admit that he didn’t _know_ her. Not truly, not as he’d wished. He could be completely wrong about her entire character, and he wouldn’t have a clue.

If he could just see her, talk to her, maybe he could know. Some lilt in her voice, the cadence of her speech, a subtle glint in her eye… The Templars had taught him well; he knew what to look for. Perhaps if he hadn’t willingly blinded himself to her, he could have some semblance of peace.

The tower was bleak at this time of night, shades of grey highlighted by blue when lightning struck. At any other time, Cullen would have welcomed the stillness, the quiet dignity of the statuary lining the walls, the way the entire tower smelled pleasantly earthy whenever it rained. But the damnable thoughts hadn’t left him, and he couldn’t be sure if it was doubt gripping his throat and making it difficult to breathe, or if he’d just tied his collar too tight again. 

He was nearing the top of the mage floors, now—only the senior enchanters and Irving had chambers this close to the Templar levels. But there was still no sign of her, and all the rooms had doors here—even if this _were _a legitimate patrol, he had no authority to open up the private quarters of the mage seniority. A pit started to open in his stomach; he was going to come up empty-handed, after all.

But faintly, like a quiet miracle, he discerned a whisper or two, hidden behind the pattering of the deepening rainfall outside. He rounded the sweeping curve of the hallway, and just like a sunrise breaking over the horizon, there she was. Only she seemed cast in greys herself, her expression glazed over with grief and sadness and a dread matching his own in scale. 

The noise of his armor startled her from her embrace with senior enchanter Cyrellion, but the elf kept a protective hand on her shoulder as they took in the sight of him lurching to a halt. 

She’d been crying. Or close to it—light reflected off her eyes like an overflowing pond. He had to be twenty paces away yet, but he could still see it—how close she was to falling apart.

She looked down and adjusted her skirt with her free hand, embarrassed to be caught by a Templar, and that little movement was what broke him—it burst through the unwanted thoughts and worries about her brush with the vilest magic. It got him moving again, gave him the clarity of mind to remove his helmet as he stepped closer. 

Maker’s breath, for as long as he lived, he’d remember how her lips quivered into a smile, the way color came back into her glassy eyes as she looked up in recognition. He couldn’t recall anyone ever gazing at him like that before. 

“Ser,” Cyrellion politely greeted him as he dropped his guarded posture—an unexpected gesture, but a welcome one. Cullen knew he was lucky to be treated with such civility. 

“Senior Enchanter,” he replied, respectfully inclining his head. He only let his gaze meet the elf’s dull, hazy eyes for the most perfunctory of moments. He’d rather be drowning in emerald seas. 

“Solona?” Cyrellion asked, pulling her from the reverie with an affectionate squeeze of her shoulder. “I’ll see you in the morning?”

Solona gaped at him in panic as he turned away, a fragment of a protest catching in her throat, but Cyrellion’s promise and his soft, reassuring smile seemed to assuage her. 

He left them in the hall, and it was only then that Cullen realized he wasn’t the only one who was armed with steel. He could tell immediately it was a longer blade, meant to be used with both hands yet light enough to not slow her down, but she couldn’t meet his gaze anymore, and the silence between them felt thick as timber. He sensed he needed to be the one to break it. 

“May I?” He held out a hand, and after a moment, she pressed the grip into his palm. He tried to ignore how her touch burned through his glove. 

He tucked his helmet under his arm and held the sword between both hands. He tested the balance, inspected the looping crossguard inlaid with a turquoise jewel the size of his thumb. It was beautiful, and far more lovingly crafted than the standard Templar equipment he was used to. The blade itself showed signs of age—tiny, shallow divots in the steel where rust had eaten it away. Lightning glimmered off the flat like rippling water, but the cutting edges held the familiar sheen of a well-honed razor. An antique, then; perhaps an heirloom? He felt almost at ease like this, evaluating a weapon with a warrior’s eye—he could have forgotten why he was here. 

“A fine blade,” he concluded softly, handing it back to her. She clung to it like a lifeline. 

“Mm,” she sighed, her breath catching as she swiftly tucked a pale crystal into her robes. What was that? How long had she been holding it? More uncomfortable questions swam back to the surface before he could shove them down. “He wants me to name it,” she said distantly, her tone uneasy and wistful as she folded two slender hands around the grip. 

“Any ideas?” he asked, just to fill the yawning quiet—she still wasn’t looking at him. 

She chuckled humorlessly, looking down the length of the blade to the floor. “None,” she replied dully, a perfunctory response of her own. 

He didn’t know what to do with his hands now—they shifted their grip on his helmet half a dozen or so times before he forced them to settle. The rain was the only sound for a long while.

The questions hadn’t stopped, but her stricken expression had stifled them enough for him to think until finally, one question shook itself free. 

“When do you leave?” He asked. His voice was raw, all pretense gone. He was afraid he knew the answer already; it was written in the furrow of her brow, the way Cyrellion had held her shoulder, how she held her sword like it was a piece of the person who had given it to her.

“Dawn,” she replied automatically. It lingered like a confession—her shoulders dropped like a weight had been released, and she nearly groaned the word out.

His heart clenched—_dawn. _Only a few hours away.

This was it, then—his last chance, his last moments with her. He waited for the grief, the pain to rise up like a tide and swallow him whole, but… Instead, a strange kind of clarity broke over him as lightning struck again; there was only the peaceful _hiss _of the rain, steady as his breath. 

He stepped forward, grateful for the way the rolling thunder masked the _clang _of his helmet falling to the floor.

“Cullen, if you need to—mm!”

* * *

  
  
She forgot how to breathe and nearly dropped her new blade; her fingers wouldn’t stop spasming under the sensation no matter how hard she tried to control them. It was a small miracle she was able to keep her own lightning in check as Cullen’s lips began to move against hers. 

There was just that single point of contact, but her nerves tingled under every inch of her skin, to say nothing of the way her thoughts continued to unravel as he lifted a hand to her waist to pull her _so gently _closer. She was falling apart now, well and truly—no amount of discipline or ignorance could conceal the chasm of emotion that had opened the instant Jowan had shown his true colors. 

But in all the turmoil of the past day, Cullen was a constant—unchanging in his feelings or devotion. That much was evident in how he seemed to rise up like a shield before her, how he took care to only touch her with leather and not steel. She sank into that feeling—that certainty, that _ trust_—like a warm bath and her hands finally began to still. She lifted one up to _pull _at the nape of his neck until he fit just right.

Maker, just let her stay here. Let her stay like this, locked in an embrace with a man who always looked at her with wonder behind his eyes. Who took what she gave and never demanded more. Who never in a million years would blackmail her, conscript her into service, or lie to her face. What little she knew of him amounted to a simple truth—he didn’t possess a single deceptive bone in his body. And what a wonderous deficiency that was.

She longed to know more—dreams and ideas, hopes and fears, even just his favorite book or time of day—but she was out of time, mere hours now until the warden took her away. From everything, from him. 

Suddenly the empty room behind her felt more like a curse than a blessing. And the thought of spending her last night all alone in a bed twice as large as she was sent a choking dread though her and she forgot how to breathe again. 

She pulled away, had to force her lungs to function as he rested his forehead on hers. “Stay with me,” she pleaded; the words tumbled out before she could stop them. 

She felt him freeze—his own steady breath hitched in shock. His hand fell from her waist as he stepped back to look at her properly, and her heart stopped.

“Please?” she pressed, opening her eyes as her throat threatened to close up again; Maker, don’t force her to beg. She knew what she asked, what it sounded like, and even though her request was a reflex, in retrospect, she meant every implication it carried. 

_ Stay with me. Hold me. Love me. _

It was too much. Far too much to ask of a Templar, of someone who would have been forced to kill her less than a day ago, but if she could only take one singular thing with her in the morning, this was it; though she supposed that _technically, _ it would be leaving something behind. 

His molten eyes searched hers, surely found the guilt and shame written there for asking this of him. The lightning outside lit his expression in varying shades of alarm, deliberation, and more than a little fear, as well as an understanding that while they had crossed so many boundaries for each other, shirked a great many rules, this was a line they couldn’t come back from. They were at the edge of the cliff, and her desire was a call from the storm. 

His eyes flicked down, to where her palm still held the corner of his jaw. Slowly, like he didn’t want to spook her, he brought his own up and circled her wrist with a firm but gentle grip. She felt her blood pound through the pulse point under his fingers, and with the same purposeful slowness, he moved her hand between them. He held her gaze deliberately and without even _blinking, _pressed a lingering kiss into her palm just under her thumb. 

Her heart skipped a beat. It, it _literally _skipped a beat; she always thought that was just a figure of speech or metaphor, but it happened. His grip shifted, becoming somehow even gentler, and his eyes danced with his reply: 

“If you insist.”

A sob, a breath of laughter, a sigh of relief—whatever it was, it shook loose a single tear that carved a stinging trail down her cheek. She wondered if this was what spirits felt as they fulfilled their purpose.

She attempted a smile, aware it probably looked more like a grimace—absolutely none of her muscles were obeying her at the moment—and took his hand, tugging him into the chamber behind her.

Worry reentered his expression as they crossed the threshold, and the slight nervousness of venturing near new territory made itself known to her as she propped her sword up in a corner and let the sense of privacy settle around them. As confident and deliberate as he was before, he seemed paralyzed now—fear of a different sort had settled well and truly in the set of his brow, casting deep shadows over his eyes in the stark light of the electricity blazing outside.

But he still held her hand, even if his felt as cold and stiff as a statue. That was alright—she’d regained a modicum of control over herself, and she’d always been more comfortable with leading, anyway. 

She brought her second to his wrist, right over where she knew a buckle was hidden. 

“May I?” she asked, purposefully mimicking his earlier request, and her own nerves quieted a bit as he came back to himself and a small, crooked grin lit his face. He nodded, and she got to work, grateful for a task requiring her hands. She found comfort in the process—he was like a very attractive, human-sized puzzle. With eyes that held a fire rivaling the hottest spark she could conjure. 

The rain deepened with every piece of steel she pulled off, and thunder rumbled and roiled and created static under her skin like it always did before the heavens truly opened. She moved all around him—loosening a tie here, flicking open a clasp there, learning as she went—but he remained at rest; if tracking her motions with the intensity of a starved animal could be described as “restful”. His lips parted as he followed every step she took—observed every action and carved them all into his memory. She hoped she could be similarly meticulous in her recollection.

She bent to help him out of his heavy boots—the final piece—before pulling herself upright again and took in the sight of him burdened by neither steel nor office, wearing only simple trousers that gathered under the knee and an unadorned gambeson. Her gaze climbed, past the laces at his neck up to his eyes that had grown nearly black with want.

She could see how hard he was breathing, how his chest rose and fell almost frantically, and wondered if his pulse could keep pace with hers, which was nearly drowning out the pouring rain in its efforts to beat its way out of her ribs. But even under this scrutiny, he still hadn’t moved; Maker, like he was waiting for _guidance. _And not out of fear or reluctance, she realized, but _trust. _And perhaps some inexperience. She briefly wondered if this was what an aneurysm felt like. 

But giving direction was something else she found comfort in, and even though he had no way of knowing this, his allowing her to dictate their pace here was the most encouraging thing he could have done. She dropped her gaze pointedly to his neck, to the ties closing his collar snugly against his skin. And he understood.

He deftly loosened the laces and pulled the heavy fabric over his head, and as his face disappeared from view, severing his attention for the first time in what felt like an hour, two thoughts occurred to her at once. 

Firstly, she was still fully clothed. And her internal temperature was quickly becoming a problem in that regard.

Secondly, for as long as she’d known him, he’d kept such an iron grip on himself it was a wonder his teeth hadn’t shattered under the pressure. She’d seen enough of his heroic restraint, of that self-control that rivaled his armor in its fortitude.

She wanted to break it.

With an efficiency honed over an entire decade of wearing mage regalia, she toed off her shoes and unclasped her belt. With a tilt of her hips, a small, shimmying dance she was grateful he couldn’t see, and a smooth pull over her shoulders, her robes landed in a puddle on the floor just as his disheveled head popped out of his gambeson. The rest of it still hung in front of his chest, bunched up in stiff wrinkles down his arms, but he froze in place as he took in the image of her wearing just a gauzy cotton shift that bared her shoulder and hardly came down to mid-thigh.

His jaw dropped, his eyes went wide with awe as he looked up to hers and saw what she hoped was a reassuring smile painted there. She cocked her head in the tiniest, most infinitesimal movement and her heart sang in triumph as she witnessed the instant his control finally snapped. 

He practically ripped the garment from his arms; if he possessed claws, it would have been reduced to a shredded mass of fabric tumbling to the floor. He closed the gap between them in two quick strides, and with no pretense, no hesitation whatsoever, lifted her waiting body into the air and crushed her mouth into his. She knew she carried precious little muscle on her bones and even less bulk, but he held her close like she weighed absolutely nothing at all; if his knuckles went white on the thigh he was pulling up around his hip, it was due to a soaring passion and not physical effort. 

She was only distantly aware of the raging storm howling outside now; the sheer number of sensations more immediate and pleasant claimed too much of her focus for her to properly revel in the way her element was surely dancing around the clouds. The chaos, the untamed fury of raw lightning had never failed to fill her with awe and empowerment; its natural manifestation only reminded her of her own ability to control that chaos. She’d never felt more alive, more _powerful _than she did when a summer storm reared over her head. 

However, her body’s reaction to Cullen’s lips at her ear, his ragged breath as she ground her hips down, threatened to unleash every ounce of lightning she held. It wasn’t often that she cursed her gift, that she wished for a more mundane connection to the elements, but right now, she’d have given her left arm for a clear head and pure blood so she could devote her entire attention to the texture of his hair slipping through her fingers, the way he trembled all over as his hand slid up her hip and only found bare skin there. 

She was at the edge of her experience now—any further step would be into unexplored territory. But she was unafraid. There were very few things in this world she would let herself be afraid of, and absolutely no part of Cullen Rutherford would ever count among them. She reached between their heaving bodies and stirred the stifling air caught by their combined breaths. 

At a single touch—hardly the graze of a fingertip—she knew him to be ready, but he jerked and staggered at the contact as if she’d shocked him, letting go of her hips and putting her down as gently as one suddenly afflicted with violent arrhythmia was capable of. 

Maker, she thought his heart might just _give out; _ he was practically _vibrating _through his linen shirt_. _His pulse and breath beat an irregular, frenzied cadence against her skin where they touched, and sent a chill down her collarbones as he gasped a choked apology into her shoulder.

“Alright?” she asked, pulling back and gently lifting his chin to meet his wild eyes to see her suspicions confirmed before he’d even regained the ability to talk—he had never been touched like that before. And he labored under the delusion that he had to be _embarrassed _for it.

He cast his gaze to the side and tried to speak, presumably to offer some irrelevant excuse, but only disjointed syllables tumbled out of his mouth. 

“Hey,” she pressed, interrupting him. She brought both hands up to his face with a soft _shh_, rubbed her thumbs along his cheekbones to help center him. _ “Breathe, _ Cullen.”

A shaky laugh tickled her nose before he finally drew a full breath. “You’re making it… _ very _difficult.” 

She grinned, mollified, and let her ego swell under his endorsement as she dropped her hands to his chest. “How so?” she teased.

“You know how,” he responded instantly, with a tone that both begged for mercy and asked for more. He opened his eyes and took a half-step closer, holding her waist and gaze with a devotion bordering on reverence, and a smile that tugged at his descending lips, until suddenly the lightning flashed again, and his eyes flicked off to the side, down to her right shoulder. 

Curiosity must have gotten the better of him, or else he wouldn’t have instinctively tugged the neckline of her shift entirely off her shoulder to get a better look at the lattice of scar tissue climbing up her back and spilling onto her collarbone. She watched his line of vision follow the patterns he traced with his fingers that oblivious to the way the static began to build again under the caress. 

“What _is _this?” he asked through a haze of confusion. She was surprised by his interest—these kinds of scars were likely outside his expertise yet.

“It’s called a Lichtenberg figure.” His tracing stuttered at the unfamiliar term. She mentally chastised herself—she didn’t answer his question appreciably. She kept her explanation clear, her voice low, unsure how he’d react. “It’s what happens when a person gets struck by lightning.” 

He broke contact with her skin and his hand froze in midair, suddenly aware of what he had been touching. A mixture of horror and wonder passed over his features as he realized just how far down the spiraling figure reached.

“Wh— _ When?” _ The hand on her waist spasmed with the urgency of his question, with some inane concern for her past safety.

“It’s… how my magic manifested,” she replied slowly and watched his worry shift to understanding. Every mage has a story, one they’d never forget for as long as they lived. She counted herself infinitely lucky that in hers, the spiraling figure on her back was the only injury anyone sustained. 

“I was… maybe eight or nine,” she reminisced, busying her fingers with a loose thread at his collar as she began the familiar tale. “I was playing by the cliffs near where I lived during a summer storm. I’d refused to go inside with the others, even when the clouds had blocked out the sun.” She held his gaze deliberately then, and allowed her next words to be blunt; she wanted to see his reaction to the unfiltered truth. “The bolt struck me when I was on a tree swing and I didn’t die.” 

She didn’t mention how she—a _ child, _ a confused, _ terrified child _—had woken up alone, in the dark, and in agonizing pain. How the other children then treated her like a rabid dog when not a week before, the littlest one wanted to be her sister forever. How Madame had never truly looked her in the eye ever again and couldn’t have even said her name—only pressed that slip of parchment into her palm just as the Templars had been carting her away. 

Those were old hurts, the kind that only a child would hang onto, but they’d left scars as indelible as the one on her back. They were just… simply too far under her skin for her to dredge up for him right now. Maybe someday, if they got so lucky again; just not yet. She hoped he’d forgive her for holding back.

He hadn’t looked away, she suddenly realized as she returned to the earth. How long had she been silent? She spared a glance at the high window, still black with rain. Maker, how much time had passed, how much longer did they have? Her pulse burst to life in a panic, becoming a madly fluttering thing behind her ribs—an exhausted bird over a roiling ocean just looking for a place to rest. 

He lifted a hand to her jaw, breaking through the panic and gently forcing her to meet his eyes and _ Maker, _ he… 

He was looking at her like he was witnessing a miracle. 

She prayed—_ really, actually prayed— _she wouldn't ever forget what that looked like. Or how it felt. Not for as long as she lived.

And _oh, _ this had to be what violent arrhythmia felt like. _ She _was paralyzed now, the tables turned completely, and she’d have found it amusing if she wasn’t so utterly spellbound by his blazing eyes that somehow still radiated warmth and light despite the cold lyrium glow. They were fierce, immutable, inescapable, but their intent was less like scrutiny and more like… 

Like… 

He surged into her suddenly, like the tide sweeping up the shore, kissing her so deeply, she couldn’t finish her thought, but _ void, _that was probably for the best. She gave over to the sensations spilling across her body; gone were his shaking hands, the manic edge to his actions. He pushed and pulled at her like he was reading her mind, finding all the places under her shift that made her sigh into his mouth and her toes curl against the stone floor. 

_ Breathe. _

She came up for air, gasping at the ceiling as he left a trail down the side of her neck, right over—_fuck, _right over the figure on her shoulder, the exact spot where magic had entered her being and changed every single thing about her, and her legs finally gave out. 

She stumbled gracelessly, but he caught her without missing a beat, swung her up into his arms and down onto the bed—and oh, thank the Maker for _beds— _ as he finished kissing every inch of her curling scar that he could reach. And his _hands— _

Void, his hands were _everywhere; _ framing her face as he claimed her mouth again, skimming her meager curves like she was a damn piece of art, but not touching her where she needed him most until she gripped his wrist and pulled him between her thighs. 

He swore in her ear and never had profanity sounded so much like a song. He paused; sighed, long and deep, pressed his lips into her hair, and _moved. _ A simple action, like stirring ripples in a pond, but she thought he was killing her—Maker, could she _actually die _from this?

Her own fingers stuttered and staggered across his back and the strong line of his shoulders, dug into his neck just under the hairline. None of her own experimentation came even close to this madness; she couldn’t be the only one here with magic in their skin, the way he touched her spirit so easily and warmed it like a healing spell.

It was too much. Everything was threatening to boil over; she saw the cliff fast approaching, felt the static gathering in her palms and humming up her bones. She could just let it all go, discharge the growing potential into the tower walls and let the nullification enchantment take care of it. She could make that choice—she could just fall. 

But he was too close—physically, too close. He was pressed up against every part of her until she couldn’t be sure where she ended and he began. And underneath sweat, soap, and a note that was uniquely his, lurked the heavy, metallic tang of lyrium.

And she knew the risk to either of them was too great. 

She pulled it back, sucked it inside, smothered it; pulled his arm back up and broke the spell well and truly, gripped his shirt at the sides and tugged it over his head to satisfy her trembling hands. He followed her rhythm, pushed the hem of her shift up her ribs and over the low swell of her chest.

The rest of it was simply inevitable and played out like a story she’d already read a dozen times; A choked gasp, a beatific smile at the sheer amount of skin on display; restless fingers that fumbled with the buttons at his waistband, batted away by steadier ones and a teasing smirk. 

A shift, then— a nudge, a press. A question written in his eyes rather than formed by his lips, her bruising kiss in an enthusiastic _yes, _and the sensation of falling as they push-pulled each other off the cliff and into the churning water.

Her world shrank—became only large enough for the sensation of him _absolutely everywhere_, their soft, measured breaths, and the sound of rain and distant thunder. 

She tried—so _very hard—_to ignore how much it felt like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cullen used SURPRISE KISS.
> 
> It was SUPER EFFECTIVE!
> 
> Solona used EMOTIONAL INTIMACY.
> 
> It was SUPER EFFECTIVE!
> 
> They did the Thing! It took literally over a year but they finally did the Thing! Credit for this chapter is also due to Spotify’s Femme Fatale playlist, btw. It’s full of women singing strong, empowering stuff that helped me get over the anxiety of writing a thing with the Thing for the first time ever.
> 
> I really like this chapter, you guys. I mean, it’s only what I’ve been building up to for like 26k words, amirite. I started this entire project with the one goal of writing the kind of fanfic I would want to read, and I’m so proud to say that I’ve upheld that goal over an entire year. Here’s to a great many more chapters because of course I’m not fucking done I will never be done I will never be over these two idiots.
> 
> Thank you so much for being here, for reading this occasional nonsense! Drop a comment and tell me what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning...

He was alert in an instant, cursing himself for dozing off. It couldn’t have been long, judging by the dark windows overhead, but it seemed the rain had finally stopped while he’d been under. 

He murmured a quiet prayer of thanks—as much as he’d disregarded the Templar code recently, it wouldn’t do for him to be literally caught in bed with a mage, even if she was no longer one of the Circle. It was a horribly weak justification, but available to him. Like a paper shield against a fireball—Maker, he was destined for the void if the Chantry had any say in his ultimate fate. 

He felt a stir against his shoulder and looked down then into the serene face of a sleeping Solona Amell.

His heart stuttered. A lock of her hair, still the color of warm honey despite the cool light, had fallen across her cheek. With agonizing slowness and delicacy—he would keep his promise, he _ would not _wake her—he tucked it behind her ear, and… he couldn’t resist, he brushed a thumb along her cheekbone. A part of him ached to see her emerald eyes open, to get one more glimpse of them before he left her, but she remained still. He sighed; he knew it was for the best. And that it was time for him to go. 

Extricating himself from her arms was easier than expected—Maker, she slept like death—but it still pained him to do it, no matter what he’d promised. 

_ I don’t want it to be goodbye. I don’t— I don’t know how to _ do _ that. _

_ I can be gone when you wake if that’s what you want. If that would make it easier. _

_ You… Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel— _

_ It’s fine. It’s not goodbye. _

_ But— _

_ Solona. Go to sleep. You can't know what you'll face tomorrow. _

She’d fought it, tried to talk through the sleep dragging down her words, but she’d succumbed eventually. And then there had been just the sound of her breathing and the warmth of her body next to his; it was no wonder he’d followed after her so quickly.

He gently swung his legs off the bed and sat up, missing that warmth so acutely he had to suppress a shudder. It took an embarrassingly long time to locate his trousers (hidden by the blankets at the foot of the bed) and even longer to find his shirt (under the cotton shift that had to be a crime against all modesty), and he had to force himself to concentrate on dressing before those thoughts created a problem that only obsessively reciting the Chant of Light could solve. 

Gambeson, boots, hauberk. 

Armoring himself again was proving to be an impossible exercise in patience—the silence of the chamber made every clink and jingle resonate much the same as simply tossing the lot of it down a steep flight of stairs. The entire process took considerably longer than usual for several reasons, not the least of which was that while Solona had considerable knowledge and expertise on a variety of Templar topics, proper care of plate armor was not one of them— She’d scattered the pieces about the room in a truly illogical fashion.

And she’d scratched his breastplate. 

He couldn’t find it in himself to be more than a little annoyed—being confined to quarters meant that he now had an excess of free time, and he imagined he’d be doing a lot of oiling and polishing and general maintenance of his equipment to fill the time anyway.

Breastplate, vambraces, couters. 

His eyes weren’t fooling him—dawn was starting to break through the high window. He buckled his sword belt deftly, but when he lifted his mail sash from where it was piled on the floor, it jangled almost violently, and she began to stir again—

She didn’t wake, but Maker, even when she was asleep, she had the power to undo him. She’d turned to face him on her side, and the soft light from the window was playing over the lines of her cheek, her neck, the winding figure on her shoulder… the curve of her breast where the blanket had slipped down. As well as more than a few reddening bruises across the otherwise flawless expanse of skin.

Curse him, Hadley had been exactly right—he absolutely _ was _a lovesick idiot of the absolute highest caliber, positively stupid for her, but he didn’t have any room for regret among the new memories or feelings she’d given him. 

He adjusted the sash, had to tug it over the pouch on the belt… Then an idea came to him—a gift of his own for her, a guarantee that this wouldn’t be the end. 

The silver coin sat heavily in his palm as he pulled it out for the first time since he’d put it there the day he arrived at Kinloch Hold. It had been a gift from his brother before he’d left for training; “For luck,” Branson had said. He’d taken it just to humor him, but Cullen couldn’t deny that he’d been afforded what was surely beyond his fair share of luck for this lifetime.

Andraste shimmered on her pyre as he set the coin on the desk by the door, seemed to encourage him as he quietly rummaged about for parchment, ink, and a quill. Thankfully, even the unoccupied mage rooms came well-stocked. 

His hand was surprisingly steady as he wrote: _ Keep it safe for me. _

He made to put the supplies back in the desk, but the sheen of the new-old blade leaning in the corner caught his eye, and he remembered that it still needed a name. He looked back to where she lay, eyes falling on the spiraling figure at her shoulder. And he knew. 

He scribbled it down hastily, with a question mark and an arrow pointing to where it stood, hoping with every fiber of his being she would see fit to use it. He could think of no higher honor. 

After a bit of searching, he finally found his gauntlets in… _ entirely opposite _ corners of the room—Maker’s breath, he really needed to talk to her about that—but her sleeping form was still calling to him, and he’d sooner light himself on fire than touch her with a covered hand. He stepped closer, knelt down, and with a vehement _ forgive me _ echoing through his thoughts, watched her breath stir the fine hairs scattered on the pillow beneath her.

He let the ache form in his heart, didn’t fight it as he might have before. 

She was just… everything. Everything he could have wanted from this life, and… he couldn’t explain it, but he knew this wasn’t goodbye. He _ would _ see her again; hopefully under kinder circumstances. But as certain as he was, he still prayed for it; harder than he could remember ever praying for anything else. He asked for forgiveness and vowed to do only His work for the rest of his days if it meant lightning could strike twice. 

With a final stroke of her perfect—Maker, so _ bloody perfect— _cheek, and the softest kiss he could manage pressed to her brow, he tucked the blanket around her and whispered a selfish goodbye, relieved to find that the word still didn’t stick. 

Standing up and backing away was easy, and even turning towards the door didn’t fill him with a drop of unease until he fastened the last buckle on his gauntlet and had an absolutely gut-wrenching realization. 

His helmet was still in the hall; he hadn’t brought it with him after he… when they… oh, _ fuck. _

The implications of an abandoned helmet just _ laying in the open _on a mage floor were just… too alarming to think about presently. This had to be it; his luck had to have run out now. He’d open the door to find the First Enchanter—or worse, Ser Greagoir—holding his helmet with the worst, most damning, knowing expression on their faces. 

It could actually be an end. If only of his career as a Templar. 

But when he opened the blessedly well-oiled door, his heart in his throat, and saw the helmet still sitting where he’d dropped it Maker-knows-how-many hours ago, one thought rang truer than the dozens of worries that had begun piling up: If this was how He rewarded Templars who so thoroughly disregarded the Chantry’s directive, he had to question their claim as the sole arbiters of His will.

He picked up the helmet. At one point, it had felt much like a second skin, clothing him in certainty and centering him when his faith had been shaken, but now… Looking into the lifeless visor only made him more and more sure he wasn’t meant for this life. Waking up with a mage in his arms had put it into such clear perspective—he’d held her heart, saw her at her most vulnerable, and there was not a single shred of her being that was intrinsically evil or wrong. She was a child of the Maker just as he was, and the Maker didn’t play favorites due to an accident of birth.

If only leaving the Templars could be so easy. A familiar hunger had settled behind his gut since waking—his body’s call for lyrium. 

He heard a noise down the hall and knew he’d stayed too long. He shoved the helmet down over his head, and tried to look as inconspicuous as one in full plate armor could manage as he resumed patrol.

* * *

The Templar quarters were just beginning to stir with the dawn when he arrived—a low murmuring from the knight’s chapel indicated the Revered Mother had begun her morning prayers, and the mess hall was starting to smell like breakfast.

He found Hadley dressed and hunched over a pile of paperwork in the library—by the height of the piles, he’d been there a while already. He approached hesitantly, hoping that it truly _ was _ better to ask forgiveness than permission.

At the sound of his shuffling, Hadley gave an annoyed sigh, leaning back in his chair with a disapproving set to his jaw. “I hope you understand how thoroughly you’ve ruined my entire night.” 

“Yes, Ser,” he responded respectfully, eyes downcast, even though the reprimand felt weak; Cullen hoped that Hadley was simply bothered by his chaotic sleep habits over the last couple days. 

“I trust you didn’t do anything stupid?” He drawled. By the angle of his brow and the weight he gave each word, Hadley’s implication was clear. 

Cullen had to fight the urge to shift his feet uncomfortably—Maker, he really didn’t want to lie, and he’d never been good at it. “I, ah…” 

“Okay, no,” Hadley cut in, waving his hand and looking away from Cullen’s guilty expression, “I don’t want to know. Just… go hang up your armor and get yourself something to eat. You and me…” he laid his hand on the pile of scrolls to his left with a heavy sigh, “we’ve got some work to do.”

Cullen nodded, grateful for Hadley’s lenient nature, and turned to leave.

“Also,” Hadley called before he’d taken a step, “Maybe pull your collar up a bit?”

* * *

Despite Hadley’s near-continuous grumbling, the paperwork truly wasn’t that onerous a task. Cullen had been tossed the stock reports and a stack of requisition forms to fill out for whatever they were running low of while Hadley worked out how much lyrium to request for the coming month. 

He settled into the task so easily, he didn’t hear the ferry bell. 

“Rutherford?” Hadley said under his breath, gesturing at the window behind him as Cullen looked up. His brow furrowed in confusion before he understood the significance of the ringing: Kester was nearing the island. He shot a questioning glance at Hadley. 

“Oh, go on,” the Lieutenant said in response as he pushed his chair back. “I could use another coffee anyway.”

Cullen took care to not disrupt the table as he stood, but nearly ran to the window and had difficulty opening the latch with hands so shaky.

A small farewell party had gathered on the dock—a few robed figures, Cyrellion among them, and Ser Greagoir as well, of all people. An unfamiliar, dark-haired man stood next to a woman in blue robes chased with silver that positively _ glowed _ in the sunrise. He knew it was her before he’d even registered the sword on her back. 

Kester docked, and Solona turned to say her final farewells—the enchanters embraced her in turn, with Cyrellion receiving the longest and most tender of moments. Ser Greagoir seemed to be there in a strictly ceremonial capacity; he remained at attention a fair distance away, and neither he nor Solona gave any indication the other was there. 

She turned back to the dark-haired man—the Warden-Commander, he now realized—who gestured to the ferry and its captain and held out a hand to help her board. She accepted it, and with a sack of her belongings in the other hand, stepped onto the gently rocking ferry and only staggered a little.

Even from up here, he could see her excited smile. 

They settled into the bench seats on the ferry, and Kester shoved off. They made it maybe thirty feet from the shore when she glanced back at the tower, and the flash of her eyes felt like an arrow piercing his heart. 

Could she see him? He raised his hand—his right, the one she’d healed—over his head and beyond the thickness of the tower walls. _ Please, look this way. _

And by some miracle, she did. Nearly jumped in her seat with her frantic wave, but she cut it short and looked at the Warden suddenly as if she’d forgotten something. She leaned down to the deck, to where she’d stowed her blade in its scabbard.

_ Maker’s breath. _

With a quick, final word to the other men on the ferry, she stood gracefully, unsheathed _ Summer Storm, _ and held it aloft. It glinted yellow in the light, but suddenly there was a _ crack, _and the blade became a bolt of blue-violet nearly twice as long as the ferry. 

But her wide smile was what burned the brightest to him, still shining in the sunrise as she released the spell into the atmosphere and lowered her weapon. He watched her fade into the distance peacefully, with an unprecedented lightness in his heart and the taste of honey on his tongue. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter could be considered an epilogue to this period of their relationship. Also, writing deeply introspective, over-thinking Cullen is like my kryptonite :D It's the only reason why this chapter came out so fast!
> 
> Feel free to drop a comment!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solona joins the Wardens.

Looking back, there were signs. 

It started on the ferry before they’d even made it halfway across the lake. The amount of  _ air,  _ the morning mist brushing her cheeks, even the sunrise had filled her with a lightness she couldn’t ever remember feeling before. She just wanted to relax, take it all in. 

But Duncan seemed resolved to interrogate her.

The questioning had started gently enough, but it only took two for her to infer that that was exactly what he was doing. He wanted to know the crimes she committed—her precise contributions to Jowan’s attempted escape, all with a heavy, scrutinizing look layered under his calm expression—like he was waiting for her to lie.

She’d answered honestly without providing unnecessary detail: she did a variety of things for him that varied in legality. But out of gratitude for his intervention, she allowed him a crucial fact—she wasn’t a willing accomplice. 

He’d paused at the mention of blackmail, dark eyes glinting, then asked what Jowan could possibly hold over her.

She refused to comment, of course, only offering a long, measured look. 

“Do you practice blood magic,” he asked suddenly, “as your friend did?”

The bluntness of the question was what had startled her the most; for someone to so casually ask if she was a student of the forbidden school felt like an accusation of the highest order. It would take far more than half a ferry ride for that question to not chill her to the bone.

She kept her face clear of emotion and maintained eye contact as she replied simply, “No.”

He nodded, accepting her answer with a careful trust, and looked back towards the distant shore, becoming lost in thought as she wrestled with what had just happened.

She should have run then; as soon as they docked and mounted the horses that had been waiting for them. She was a fast learner, and the horse she was given turned out to have a patient, even temper—she could have learned how to ride without Duncan’s instruction. 

But the world felt  _ so big  _ now, so she stayed; if only for the company. Once her suspicion had worn off from his earlier questions, she found that he had a quiet, contemplative demeanor, not unlike Cyrellion’s. He didn’t fill time with idle chatter, and when she had questions of her own, he answered them honestly with only a few gentle words. Eventually, they hardly spoke at all outside of necessary directions and guidance as she learned to control her horse. 

The journey itself proved to be uneventful, but she would never have called it dull. The trees often overhung the path they followed—she’d forgotten they could grow taller than a man—and when they stopped to rest her aching muscles or to camp for the night, she had to suppress the urge to just press her face into the grass and  _ breathe in  _ the nature surrounding her.

For the week’s journey, there was nothing but hills, forests, and the occasional running stream. It even  _ rained  _ one night. A light sprinkle, hardly enough to create mud, but she stood in the middle of the clearing and reveled in every single drop that kissed her face. 

And she missed Cullen. He’d left an ache, a real one, but in the face of this new freedom, it was… tolerable. It didn’t bother her as much it might have. She promised him she would write when she was settled somewhere and found she was alright with waiting the potential weeks it would take to hear back. For now, pulling out his coin to watch the starlight play over the silver and simply remembering was enough.

Her days passed in quiet beauty and the night held a serenity she’d never witnessed from the tower, but as the spires of Ostagar drew nearer and nearer and the unblemished nature gave way to palisades and tents, her gut began churning with unease.

And Duncan began talking again, briefing her on what was happening with the darkspawn and what was expected of her the first couple days here. Then he uttered two words that all but turned her stomach inside-out: Joining ritual.

A  _ ritual _ —not a simple ceremony or laying of hands or a blessing from some Revered Mother, but a  _ ritual.  _

A lesson she learned early in her apprentice days was that all components, no matter how strong, were irreversibly changed through ritual magic. Crystals were often darkened, alchemical herbs rendered to ash, and even the channeling of magic through the components left real, undeniable marks on the Veil. 

_ She herself _ could be changed through this process, which alarmed her far more now than it did all that time ago, when all she could do was charm objects to levitate or cast a faint glow. This was a great deal bigger than that, she had no doubt; especially with the imminent battle.

But of course, when pressed on the issue, all Duncan would tell her was that she would know everything in due time. And that non-response rankled more than the stench of darkspawn on the horizon.

* * *

This new Templar recruit that Duncan brought from the Ferelden circle was…  _ cagey, _ to say the least. Hardly said two words after introducing herself, didn’t even laugh at his joke about being turned into a toad… 

To be honest, he thought Duncan would be bringing back a mage for the Archivist, but the way she carried herself implied a high level of skill in everything she did, including using that very large, very deadly sword on her back—Solona Amell must be a truly exceptional warrior for Duncan to have chosen her. 

Exceptional on the  _ battlefield, _ sure, but perhaps it was true what they said about Templars—once the vows were said, they lose all sense of humor. Maybe he’d try a couple of mage jokes… 

But a score of tents later on their way to find the other warden-recruits, and she’d hardly reacted at all, just held that maddening half-smile she’d adopted since he mentioned his own time with the Order. He was nearing defeat, ready to give up on a companionship with someone so frosty, when someone called out from the Formari tent.

“Solona!”

She turned to the voice, and he was shocked to see it belonged to an older  _ mage, _ who pulled her into a warm embrace, which Solona…  _ returned. Easily.  _ As if there weren’t Templar rules against  _ this very thing. _

“Oh, it’s so wonderful to see you, child!” the older mage gushed as his confusion deepened—his head was starting to hurt. “I knew you were going to do great things once you passed your Harrowing, and here you are—a Grey Warden.”

_ Oh.  _

Well. That would explain a lot. Except for the sword, he supposed. Maker, if the ground could just open up and swallow him, he’d consider it a mercy.

“Thank you, Senior Enchanter,” Solona— _ Mage Amell,  _ he now realized—responded.

“Dear, it’s just ‘Wynne,’ now,” the enchanter gently corrected. “You don’t belong to the circle anymore.”

A few more pleasantries were exchanged while he stood around probably looking as much a colossal idiot as he felt—some of his jokes weren’t exactly  _ clean— _ until Senior Enchanter Wynne excused herself to return to supervising the tranquil.

_ Mage Amell  _ turned back to him with an absolute shit-eating grin, and even though he was most definitely annoyed, he couldn’t help but be in awe at how masterful her deception was. But, but it was also,  _ very, very rude. _ And—  _ disrespectful. _ Didn’t he out-rank her? How was a girl her size making him feel this small? 

He crossed his arms and searched for the most disapproving set of words to throw back.

“You— you’re a  _ mean person,” _ was all he managed, to his dismay and couldn’t help the smile that wormed its way through his frown. He eventually stopped fighting it; it was truly an exemplary prank. 

“Let’s go do it to the others,” he requested through a grin.

She gave a huff of disbelief, but then to his utter delight, she  _ laughed.  _ “Alright.”

Maker, he hoped they could keep her.

* * *

She regained consciousness to a stunning view of the sky and the scent of death all around. 

“My lady!” a voice sounded over pounding footsteps. “Are you injured?”

“Ser Jory,” she grunted, shoving away the reeking corpse that had fallen on top of her, “if you call me ‘my lady’ one more time, I will smite you where you stand.”

“Apologies, my—” he stuttered, offering a hand to help her up. “Yes, Solona.” 

As soon as she was on her feet, she tugged her sword out from under another darkspawn body—the genlock that had flanked her and knocked her over the head—and wiped it clean as best she could on robes that were heavy with blood themselves before sheathing it. 

“Where are the others?” she asked.

Ser Jory gestured to where they were kneeling, hunched over another corpse with a vial in Daveth’s hands. The kill was fresh—the blood still flowed easily from an artery to fill the glass. Alistair took it, held it up to the sun to inspect it, then stoppered it before returning it to Daveth with an approving nod. 

She was familiar with that look, and not because it was the same one he’d worn when ser Jory had filled his vial as well—He was  _ measuring. _

Her head throbbed; the blow from the genlock’s club had probably raised a lump. She summoned a healing spell and pressed it to the back of her skull as she and ser Jory approached the other two men. 

“You alright?” Alistair asked, and waited for her to nod before turning back to Daveth. “Try to be a little more observant next time?”

Daveth huffed as he stood. “Amell kept stealing my kills!”

She smirked to herself. It was true—payback for his earlier comments about her sword being too big for her and offering her one of his daggers instead. She only wished she’d been more subtle about it.

“Look, in my… admittedly, limited experience,  _ who _ does the killing is far less important than the killing just getting done,” Alistair admonished. “And it’s hardly  _ her  _ fault your aim is so terrible. You were supposed to be covering her, anyway.”

“Well, who’s to cover me, then?”

“Weren’t you just saying how in all your years of petty thievery no one but Duncan had ever gotten the drop on you?” Ser Jory crossed his arms disapprovingly.

“It  _ literally _ popped right out of the ground!” he protested, gesturing at the muck under their feet.

“Oh, just apologize to the nice lady and let’s move on,” Alistair retorted, glancing back at her. “Still one more vial to fill.”

* * *

Daveth and ser Jory had taken lesser darkspawn as their kills, simply whatever the last enemy in the skirmish happened to be. 

Solona had a different philosophy—the Emissary  _ would _ be hers.

She called her target—yelled at Daveth who was still trying to pick it off at long range while their warriors suffered under a hail of suppressive fire. Alistair struggled to shield both himself and ser Jory as they pushed through the field littered with traps.

“Archers, Daveth!” she bellowed between bolts fired from behind her cover, “Get the damn archers!”

“If I can hit that Emissary—!” he ducked under a spell that whizzed by like an overgrown insect.

“Leave the Emissary! It’s  _ mine!”  _

A roar echoed across the field—ser Jory had made it to the left bank of archers, but Alistair was down—his ankle was nearly bitten through by a claw trap. And Daveth was nocking  _ another arrow.  _

She rounded on him, eyes wild. “Put your bow down and move right, or I will hex your ass!”

He glared back, but at least had the good sense to heed her threat and pulled out his daggers before rolling away.

Ser Jory had distracted the left bank enough for them to have dropped their bows, but he was outnumbered, Daveth couldn’t evade six weapons between four darkspawn forever, and Alistair was still a sitting duck for the Emissary, who was channeling. She needed to do something—turn the tide somehow. 

She peeked out over her cover just as the Emissary cast its spell—some kind of siphoning force between itself and Alistair, stealing his life. 

She nearly smiled to herself as a plan developed—it was something she’d always wanted to try. 

A breath—it’s a wonder how just one small breath can boost mana production—and the veil warped, forming a shimmering field around Alistair that froze him in place and severed the connection. 

A cry echoed across the battle—someone was injured; she had to cast  _ now _ and pray this worked. 

She reached up and gripped the veil above Alistair’s head. The Emissary was channeling again; aiming at her, now.

“Brace yourselves!” she yelled over the noise and  _ pulled— _ slammed her palm into the ground and took a piece of the Fade with it. _ _

It would have killed him; a force of that magnitude would have shattered the mightiest armor, crushed the bones of anyone in the vicinity. It was one of the deadliest spells in her arsenal—an utterly unstoppable force, but at the moment, he was an immovable object. And instead of flattening him, the shockwave felled the Emissary and knocked the rest of the darkspawn off their feet. 

Ser Jory managed to keep his footing, and even though the shockwave caught Daveth by surprise, he rolled cleanly out of his stumble and landed lithely as a cat ready to strike. Confident the lesser beasts could be taken out easily, she advanced—careened around her covering boulder so quickly, her boots nearly slid out from under her on the moist earth. 

She sprinted past Alistair and heard him moan more in confusion than pain—he’d be alright.

The Emissary still lay sprawled on its back as she ran closer, sword raised. Slaughter erupted from either side in gurgles and cries and the scent of blood like a wake of death behind her as she flew.

She stepped into measure, felt the grip settle into place in her palms as she pulled back for a strike—

But a twisted arm shot up, spell ready, and caught her spirit in its grip.

Her fingers and toes went numb first, drained of life and vigor before she could counter. She was lifted off the ground as the Emissary rose and Summer Storm fell from her limp hands as she looked into its terrible, black eyes and saw only hunger. 

But the visceral fear curling in her gut was what unnerved her more.

She thought she heard a shout—her strength and awareness were waning so quickly she could hardly keep her eyes open anymore. Her head fell back, and the world shifted—drained of color, forced into sharp contrast as her breath was pulled from her lungs and her limbs began to wither away— 

The creature howled in pain and the spell faltered—an arrow had lodged in its thigh. Its grip on her soul broke and her boots hit the ground as her mana roared to life again, gathering in her palms and crackling through the air. 

She narrowed her focus and sent a bolt cleanly through the Emissary’s heart. It dropped its staff before falling backward, twitching and spasming—not dead yet, but thoroughly paralyzed. She could breathe again.

She turned to see ser Jory supporting a limping Alistair and Daveth shouldering his bow.

“Nice shot,” she offered as she picked up her blade, forcing her tone to stay even.

He shrugged and gave her an easy smirk that felt like forgiveness. “Not really. I was aiming for the head.”

She wasn’t sure if her laugh was genuine or if it was just nerves, but Daveth smiled anyway as Alistair pushed off of ser Jory’s shoulder and hopped forward.

“Come on, help the cripple,” he grunted, reaching for her arm, “let’s get this done before it wakes up.”

The Emissary stayed down as they hobbled closer, made no purposeful movements as she lowered Alistair down and knelt next to its smoking body. Maker, the  _ smell.  _ The only scent worse than darkspawn corpses were  _ burnt _ darkspawn corpses. Her nose stung, her head felt even lighter. 

“Vial,” Alistair reminded her. She dug it out of the pouch on her belt, but fumbled it as she drew her knife—her fingers wouldn’t stop _ shaking,  _ damnit.

“Alright?” he asked with concern lining his brow.

She glared. “I’m fine.”

He nodded but she could tell he didn’t believe her. He shifted himself closer to the twitching Emissary, and placed a hand under its stuttering jaw—pushed it up and away, exposing its neck. 

“This vein, here,” he indicated with his other hand, then waited.

And…  _ waited; damnit, _ why couldn’t she move? 

It was supposed to be  _ easy. _ The Emissary was completely helpless—electrocuted to within an inch of its horrible life. But as she held her knife to the vein, her damned  _ hands— _

“It’s alright to be afraid,” he said gently; she didn’t even need to look to see the pity in his eyes.

She steeled herself—she refused to be  _ pitied.  _ She set her jaw and drew the knife through the Emissary’s decaying skin in a smooth movement, catching the thick stream of burgundy in the vial as the twitching subsided.

_ I have not winced, nor cried aloud. _

“I’m not afraid of it,” she affirmed, forcing herself to watch the pulsating wound and pushing down her revulsion at the  _ warmth _ seeping through the glass into her hand.

He gave her a measured look before turning to focus on his mangled boot. “I get it,” he sighed. “Nothing like a brush with death to make you… not like death mu—”

“The Joining,” she interrupted him, stilling his hands. “It’s blood magic, isn’t it?”

_ “What?” _ his voice jumped an entire octave as his eyes went wide with a nervous smile. “Why— Aheh… why would you—”

She cut him off with a look as the blood began to run dry. “I’m not an idiot,” she looked back to where Daveth and Ser Jory were keeping watch. “Those two might not see it, but this isn’t just a rite of passage; this—” she gestured with the full vial. “—is an ingredient for a ritual.”

He was cornered, and his hesitation all but confirmed her suspicions, but he schooled his expression into what he thought was indifference. “I… can neither confirm,” he grimaced as he peeled his sock off, “nor deny that.” 

“Wonderful,” she sighed, pressing the stopper back into the vial with her thumb before turning to look at his leg. He hadn’t asked, but he’d be useless otherwise and it was getting late.

His boot had taken most of the damage, but the skin was bruised and bloody where the trap had bitten through the leather. And the fact that he wouldn’t put any weight on that side suggested a fracture or two. A breath later, her hands were sheathed in healing magic.

He only grunted a bit in surprise as she began, but her concern mounted anyway. “I didn’t—” she sighed uncomfortably. “Nevermind.”

His mouth twitched like he really wanted to say something, but lost the nerve. “Look, I know it’s not an answer,” he began slowly, “but you’ll understand all the secrecy afterward.”

She laughed humorlessly. Alistair’s reluctance in this was the biggest sign of all that something terrible was coming; she hadn’t even known him for a day, but she already knew that he was arguably an even worse liar than Cullen.

“You know something?” she asked neutrally, withdrawing her magic as the bruising faded.

“Hm?” he looked up gratefully.

Bitterness twisted her lips, but she held his gaze steady as a weapon as she addressed the former Templar before her. “That’s exactly what they told us about the Harrowing.”

* * *

All those signs and she didn’t run. 

And whether through action or inaction, she eventually found herself staring into the depths of an ornate chalice, silver griffons winking in the moonlight. She braced herself for an unspeakably foul taste, but to her shock, the decoction went down easily, like spiced wine in winter. 

But then it settled, and it all went wrong.

It twisted and turned, roiled and unknotted like a snake had slid into her belly. It was a living thing, she had no doubt, poking and prodding her insides. It gathered, burst out from her center in blazing tendrils, through every vein, every nerve, until she was sure she was on fire.

This— this couldn’t be right. She was doubled over, fighting the decoction, the  _ poison, _ with everything she had—this couldn’t possibly be what  _ success _ felt like. Her thoughts were sluggish, weighed down by the choking death she’d swallowed. 

But when her knees hit the ground, a single thought burst through the pain—this was how Daveth died.

This was how she was going to die. 

The despair was overwhelming, and she almost lost her grip as her fingers dug into the stone floor. Was she not enough for this? Hadn’t she done enough? Fought, killed, survived enough? 

She lashed out, felt a stinging warmth at her knuckles—she was  _ better _ than this. Better than  _ them.  _ She wouldn’t be a victim of circumstance—she wouldn’t die before she’d  _ lived. _

_ My head is bloody, but unbowed. _

She forced her eyes open, clawed through the layers of pain to the surface and then heard—no,  _ felt— _ a terrible, howling roar before tipping into a white void.

And then there was nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I hope I'm making everything interesting enough - if you guys are anything like me, you've played through the beginning of Origins so many times, you've got it all memorized.
> 
> The next chapter will be new, more original stuff!
> 
> Drop a comment and tell me what you think!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uldred's uprising begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a humongous thanks to my beta reader, dabbingslytherin!

_ Cullen— _

_ I’m not dead. And whatever you might hear about the wardens is a lie fabricated by a _ <strike>_ son of a_</strike> _ man so obsessed with power he can’t hear the Blight knocking at his door. _

_ You read that correctly, it’s a Blight. And there are only two Fereldan wardens now. And it’s going to get a lot worse before it gets any better. But it looks like we’ll need to pay the tower a visit in the next few weeks. We’ll need your help, whatever the Circle can provide. _

_ Forgive my brevity— We’re in Lothering only long enough to buy food, water, and send this and a couple of other letters. We’re not even staying the night. _

_ I won’t tell you to not worry about me because I know not even the Maker himself could stop you, but please know that no matter what happens, when this is all over, I _ _ will _ _ come back. I swear it, even if I have to slay the bloody Archdemon myself. _

_ Thinking of you always— _

_ Solona _

* * *

Cullen was reading her letter for probably the hundredth time when it began. 

He didn’t even think about his imprisonment—his mind simply couldn’t keep pace with his body’s automatic reaction to the danger, so he was armed and armored in record time. He followed his brothers and sisters in nearly a trance, up several floors with howls and roars and a horrific rending echoing over their heads. It was calamitous above and the mages ran down nearly in a panic, but the Templars filed up silently, voices held tight by either discipline or fear. 

The door to the Harrowing chamber rattled in its frame under the eyes of the Knight-Commander, who seemed unbowed by the terrible sounds bleeding through the wood. 

He looked back at the knights assembled into straight ranks, clean lines, standing at rigid attention despite the pure anarchy that awaited them inside before lifting a hand to the door—to discover it was powerfully warded against entry or escape. 

“Captain Ewing,” he called. A grey-haired woman stepped up to his elbow and looked down at him expectantly. “Open this door.”

“Yes, ser,” she replied coolly, taking his place as he turned to address the knights.

“The situation is this,” he proclaimed, clasping his hands behind his back. “A senior enchanter—now revealed to be a maleficar—has taken the First Enchanter and,” he sighed, “much of the mage seniority hostage.”

Under her leather pauldrons, a lighter issue than was standard, ser Ewing’s shoulders tensed as a weight seemed to settle into her upturned palms that seemed to glow in time with the Chant.

_ Those who oppose thee shall know the wrath of heaven. Field and forest shall burn. The seas shall rise and devour them. _

“We believe he attempted to stage a coup and summoned demons to aid him, becoming possessed in the process,” ser Greagoir continued, over both the Chant and a moaning roar that turned Cullen’s blood to ice. Ser Ewing’s breath became labored as her dark eyes closed in concentration.

_ The wind shall tear their nations from the face of the earth. Lightning shall rain down from the sky. _

“There is no telling what exactly awaits us behind this door—it has been sealed for some time and this enchanter was powerful and intelligent,” he leveled his gaze at the lot of them, then pointed up towards the chamber. “But now, he is more _beast_ than man. And the _horde_ he has summoned is as mindless as a rabid dog. You have full sanction to use whatever means necessary to put them down and _restore_ _order.”_

“Commander,” ser Ewing strained and terror found its home in Cullen’s throat. 

“Hold, Captain,” he replied, and she nodded, standing firm. “Make no mistake, sers—this situation is dire. Beyond this barrier is the stuff true nightmares are made of. Those of you that survive will carry these memories to your graves, and those who fall… know that your sacrifice will be remembered. And may we all find peace at the Maker’s side.”

Cullen’s vision was blurring and his ears were ringing with more than just the chaos brewing before them. “But we are _ Templars. _ We are the Maker’s chosen—we are His sword, and _ we will not _ unleash this evil upon His creation, whatever the cost.”

Around him, the knights abandoned the strict resting posture—blades were out, shields were raised, but Cullen’s numbed fingers didn’t feel capable of holding a fist, let alone his blade.

“Ser Ewing,” the Knight-Commander called, turning and drawing his sword. “_ Bring it down.” _

* * *

“Alright, I know I’m going to regret this, but it's really bothering me,” Alistair suddenly exclaimed, breaking the slow rhythm of their evening pace as their horses tired after a full day of travel, “How could you believe a mindless pack of werewolves would be better allies than an entire Dalish clan?”

Solona sighed in frustration—because she knew the question wasn’t directed at her. “Alistair—” 

“No, I want to hear this,” he countered, either too restless to enjoy the peace or too belligerent to let sleeping witches lie.

“I require no assistance, Solona,” Morrigan called from behind her. “If Alistair wishes to be proven wrong, ‘tis my pleasure to oblige.”

“Oh, I already have so many regrets,” he moaned into his chest—never mind that he brought this on himself. Solona resigned herself to another hour of their bickering; two, if she were unlucky. 

“Firstly, the weres displayed levels of intelligence and reason far greater than your own, so who would you say is mindless as compared to whom?”

“Mm, not terribly original, as far as your insults go—”

“Secondly,” she continued, “if we are fighting an enemy as ruthless and undiscriminating as the darkspawn, shouldn’t we also desire allies who would kill without question or mercy?”

“Thought you'd know that wolves are hardly obedient, seeing as you’ve been one before. They'd bite the hand that commands them sooner than follow orders.”

“Obedience is overrated. The will to simply survive is stronger than the will to obey, and lawless brutality is sometimes the answer to overwhelming odds. The darkspawn understand this; we could stand to learn from them.”

“Maybe _ you _ could,” Alistair spat. “But _ I’m _ no darkspawn.”

There was silence from Morrigan’s direction, and Solona hoped that was the end of it; the forest was so very pleasant this time of day. 

“Yet,” Morrigan replied simply and even Solona twisted around in her saddle in shock—that was stunningly low, even for her.

But a shrug and a _ ‘Tis true _ was all she offered by way of apology.

“You…” Alistair gaped as Solona faced forward again, his voice dripping with disgust. “You're horrifying—you know that?”

She seemed to consider it for a moment, but when she replied, she sounded distracted. “I shall take it as a compliment...”

“Well, don't, because—”

“Solona?” Morrigan interrupted. She turned again. “Something appears to be _ glowing _ in your bag.”

She looked down and sure enough, not only was there a glimmer of light peeking through the seam but now that her companions had ceased bickering, she could hear a rattling hum as well. 

_ Odd. _

She thrust a hand down, pushing aside the flap as she felt around, but when she couldn’t find the source of the anomaly, she pulled her mount to a halt so she could search properly. 

She lifted the flap, and it became apparent—in the same pocket as Cullen’s heavy silver coin sat the ivory talking crystal that had been lifeless until moments ago. It was warm to the touch when she picked it up and held it close. And behind uneven pulses that felt unnervingly like a dying heartbeat, she discerned a whisper.

_ Solona. Help us. The tower— _

It cut off suddenly, and the crystal went dark. 

Her vision blurred, and she couldn’t tell if it was the evening chill or the pit in her stomach that was making the crystal tremble in her palm. 

“Hey,” Alistair called gently, snapping her focus back to the present. “What is it; what’s wrong?”

Faintly, the rational part of her brain argued that she owed them an explanation, but there was no time to explain what the crystal was, who gave it to her, and the only way he could have gotten it to work again. 

So she looked back at them and only took in their confused expressions for the briefest moment before issuing a command. 

“Ride,” her voice was jagged, cut through the air like a broken sword. “The tower—_ ride!” _

* * *

Behind the doors leading to the second-floor stairwell, the other surviving Templars fought for breath, but Knight-Captain Leona Ewing pressed a steady hand to the iron-bound wood and only felt gratitude. 

_ In the pounding of my heart _

_ I hear the glory of creation. _

A prayer, a pull on the lyrium in her skin—etched in sunbursts on her palms—and the door was warded. An imperfect seal, but effective. It would stand for some time, provided the Maleficarum didn’t bring the might of their corrupt magic upon it. 

The initial assault before the Harrowing chamber proved catastrophic. If Leona knew fear, she’d have felt it the instant she brought the barrier down and the tide of demons swept over the Templar ranks, felling nearly one in three. Her position at the front line prevented her from casting enough of a mass silence to hinder the enemy to any effect. The Commander had sounded a retreat within minutes.

“Officers!” he called, and she answered, clasping her hands behind her back and stepping carefully around the other knights who were gasping and panting and covered in too much blood, to where her Commander sat slumped on a bench—exhausted, unused to swinging a sword. Her heart twisted a bit—a foreign sensation. 

She stepped into place among the three other surviving officers, forming a half-circle around the Commander.

“Well,” quipped Lieutenant Hadley as he crossed his arms, “if no one else is gonna say it… We’re fucked.”

“Entirely unhelpful, ser Hadley!” Captain Rollings admonished over the other officers’ muttering. 

“But true!” Hadley scoffed, gesturing up to the warded door. “We all saw that—that _ horde, _ what can we do against such madness?”

“There is nothing we _ can _ do. We…” Lieutenant Garrel faltered but fixed the Commander with a steady look. “We must invoke the Right of Annulment.” 

“The _ Right—!” _Rollings gasped, and Leona watched the Commander hang his head with the same resignation that was settling into her own gut.

“Yes, _ now, _or—” 

“You’re a bit green in the gills to suggest Annulment, Lieutenant!”

“And you’ve more years than all of us combined, Rollings!” Garrel spat. “This is the only way to restore—”

“Not the only way,” Hadley injected smugly, “just the damned _ psychopath’s _ way.” 

“Not a fucking psycho,_ Hadley, _ just a pragmatist. It’s a _ guarantee—” _

“That Kinloch will be remembered as the site of a massacre?” Rollings accused. 

“It already will,” The Commander interrupted. The officers silently turned to see him uneasily pulling himself upright. “There’s no denying what’s already happened.”

A pause as the enormity of the Commander’s statement settled on each of them—the realization that history had already been made, its course set. All that was left was damage control. Leona understood this already—odd that it took the others this long to come to the same conclusion. 

“Then what is your command, ser?” Rollings implored him.

The Commander looked upon his remaining knights and officers—Leona knew he was feeling the weight of each of their lives in his hands, in his next words.

“The Right of Annulment…” he sighed, _ “must _ be called for—in this, Garrel is correct. But... it will be some time before permission can be granted.”

“How much time?” Garrel asked.

“It’s… difficult to say,” the Commander responded, “but enough for other measures to be attempted first. We must simply settle on what they are. I won’t make a decision of this magnitude unless we are all in agreement.”

He rested his hands on the pommel of his sword and waited. 

“What would it take to prevent the Rite of Annulment from being enacted?” Rollings inquired at length.

“Uldred,” Garrel replied immediately, gesturing with a hand. “Uldred must be eliminated.”

“We can’t be sure it was Uldred—” 

“Just because you’ve got a bleedin’ heart for every robe in Thedas doesn’t mean it wasn’t him!” Garrel exclaimed, stepping forward and thrusting a finger in Rollings’ face. _ “Someone’s _ responsible, and I’ve had my eye on that… _ eel _ since he came back from Ostagar!”

“I find it difficult to believe the responsibility rests on one man,” Hadley countered. “Eel or no.”

“Indeed,” Rollings concurred with a weighty sigh. “For a single person to possess this much power, it—”

“—should be impossible,” Garrel finished. 

“Not impossible,” Leona gently corrected, and the officers froze in surprise as she broke her silence. “Just rare.”

She supposed they looked on her with some mixture of fear and respect, and if she felt the urge to fan her ego, their gawking would make for excellent kindling. 

“Irving,” the Commander sighed. “If we can recover the First Enchanter, if he can stand before me and promise that order has been restored, I will not invoke the Right.”

“He’s probably dead already—”

“Then there is truly no saving the Circle and the decision is moot,” the Commander chastised. “But an effort _ must _ be made.”

“A strike team,” Leona suggested and watched all eyes turn to her. “We split our force; half will go down to send for permission as well as barricade the Great Doors and the other will push forward to find the First Enchanter, eliminating any threat along the way.”

The officers gaped and the Commander dropped his gaze to the floor, but she knew he’d see the sense in this. 

Garrel grumbled. “It’s suicide,” he protested.

_ “The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,” _ Leona countered. _ “And she will know no fear of death.” _

More silence, more staring. The Commander was looking at her strangely, almost sadly. An unnecessary sentiment—if she fell, it would be the Maker’s will. As everything is and would be, this tragedy included.

_ Remember the fire. You must pass _

_ Through it to be forged anew. _

“I will not order anyone to do this,” the Commander warned. “Volunteers only.”

Leona nodded; she wouldn’t have it any other way. Give her righteous men and women with courage to match their strength, who trust the Maker enough to put their lives in His hands as well as hers.

The Commander gave her another long look before he spoke again. “I must inform the knights,” he said, stepping forward. “You should prepare yourself.”

Only there was no preparation necessary. Her armor shone, her belt hung heavily with lyrium, and her soul was clean. If the Maker willed her death today, she would meet Him happily.

But she knew the Commander needed reassurance of some kind, so she nodded again and stepped in time behind him as he left to address the knights.

The Knights-Templar paled as the Commander informed them of the decision, and more than a few looked upon her with trepidation as she checked the ammunition at her belt and let a flash of blue scurry across her armor to settle in her palms, making the sunbursts gleam with light. 

She didn’t need to check the smallest vial, hanging from her neck against her skin in a pendant shaped like Archon Hessarian’s sword of mercy and just as sharp. She felt it there always, a constant reminder of its purpose, and if circumstances forced its use, so be it.

Her feigned preparations were complete—down to ensuring her long hair was still swept back into its braid and her steel circlet was centered on her head. She resumed her posture before the door—chin up, hands at the small of her back. 

The Commander seemed to be done briefing the knights, but none stepped closer. Unfortunate, but if this was His will, she would bear the burden of this mission alone. It may even be better this way. 

But then ser Everett Bright stepped forward resolutely and took his place beside her with a smile, one she easily returned—he’d been under her command since his first posting. Then sers Marcus Cotta and Oliver Dunn, brothers in all but name. Ser Vera Blackburn. Ser Elias Kelley. Ser Yannick Haider—a surprise, as he frequently cheated at cards and swore within earshot of the Revered Mother… But she would not turn away a willing soul.

Sers Henrietta May and Anthony Delves followed shortly—such _ youth. _It was… more than she’d anticipated. 

When no others came forward, she turned to face them and began a prayer—Trials seemed the most appropriate—and was gratified when they joined her, feeling like a simple Chanter again.

_ Though all before me is shadow, _

_ Yet shall the Maker be my guide. _

_ I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond, _

_ For there is no darkness in the Maker’s Light. _

_ And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost. _

Their faces were ashen by the end and more than one cheek shone with tears. She felt her own making an appearance. “Fear not, sers,” she reassured them. “We do the Maker’s work today.” 

Perhaps they deserved something more poetic, but she had no mind for such artistry—the Chant had sustained her for decades; it would have to be enough. 

With a final nod, she stepped before the door and raised a hand to dispel— 

“Rutherford—” The Commander called, and she turned to see another knight striding towards her, fear evident in his every movement, but pressing forward anyway. She knew of him—young and unsure of his place or purpose but possessing a good heart. He would be welcome.

Ser Rutherford turned back to the Commander, clearly ready to argue. She’d been made aware of his recent activities—disrupting a Harrowing, sneaking out of quarters at night—but she knew what the Commander saw in him. And she knew why he was merciful. 

A range of emotion passed over the Commander’s face, but in the end, he only nodded. “May the Maker watch over you. All of you.” 

He met Leona’s gaze, and she allowed a small smile of reassurance before lifting a still-steady hand to the door. 

* * *

One by one, she watched her comrades fall. 

Ser Elias Kelley was first, roasted alive in his armor by a maleficar flanked by abominations that had cornered a group of apprentices.

It would not get a second chance at murder. Sers Bright and Haider charged the abominations on her order, and swift as an arrow, she followed behind them, vaulting off their strong shoulders to land behind the maleficar. A breath, a palm at the base of its skull, and it lay dead at her feet. 

_ May you find no rest in this world or Beyond. _

The abominations were dispatched quickly with more traditional methods. For all their strength, they fight like beasts—predictable and slow. 

The apprentices—young and frightened—were near hysteria at the sight of so many Templars, but sers May and Rutherford sheathed their weapons and talked them down, convinced them to hide in a classroom and barricade the door. 

Ser Vera Blackburn had been next—shades, whispering promises of safety and enticements to two terrified mage children. She’d been drained of life before anything could be done, and the children had panicked at the sight of her—rushing forward, sword raised… 

There had been no one to save, in the end. 

_ I have faced armies _

_ With You as my shield, _

_ And though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing _

_ Can break me except Your absence. _

They swept through the entire tower floor, then the next, but there was still no sign of the First Enchanter or Uldred, and as her companions kept falling—ser Cotta to an enthralled ser Dunn, who’d wounded two more of her knights before ser Bright put him down—despair of a more insidious, intangible nature began making itself known. 

The only solace was the sheer number of adversaries that fell before her—more than one skirmish had called for a strategically thrown grenade to break lines of abominations, but otherwise, she danced.

The knights moved with forced precision, crude strength in every step, but it was the Maker Himself who carried her through this fray. Leona Ewing had never learned to swing a sword—weapons were tools of men, and she’d been sheltered among priestesses nearly all her life. But He’d forged her into a weapon of His own making and wielded her with unending grace and finesse. He showed her when to duck, to dodge, to spin out of measure—when to reach out with her own hands to smite the maleficar in front of her, or with His to burn a demon from the inside out. He was the Light and she was His shadow, moving between and around instead of through. 

It had been years since He’d asked this of her, but the motions came back so easily and whenever He called, she answered without reservation. She’d surrendered her will to His long ago, and though she’d never known the touch of a mortal man, she knew His as she might a lover’s and it was His face she searched for at every dawn.

Losing herself once more in the dance was easy. Becoming again a conduit of His will to bestow swift justice was easy. But watching from across the Great Hall as the light left sweet ser May’s eyes—her blood forcibly pulled through a gash in her abdomen—because Leona Ewing wasn’t quite swift enough anymore... That was more than He’d asked of her in a very long time.

But for all her fortitude, her ability to witness the deaths of so many but still persevere, her companions grew haggard. Even ser Bright—whose many years under her command had greyed his hair but not his tenacity—seemed to hollow as they climbed. And even though sers Rutherford and Delves possessed the spirit of youth, it waned with every drop of blood they spilled and they seemed to age years before her eyes. 

She mourned the loss of their innocence as she did their companions’ lives, the lives of every innocent cut short by this depravity. 

They deserved to live after this. She hoped the Maker would see them through it, but if He willed otherwise… 

So be it. May it be swifter than she. 

_ Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, _

_ I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm. _

_ I shall endure. _

_ What you have created, no one can tear asunder. _

To her shame, it became more and more difficult to leave her worries, hopes, and sorrows at the Maker’s door, and the weight of it all became almost palpable as they came upon the door leading to the central chamber of the present level. 

The sounds coming from within were unlike anything she’d heard in her fifty-two years on this earth. She’d witnessed torture, watched newborns die in their mother’s arms, seen a rabid dog nearly chew off its own leg to escape its master’s chain, but _ this— _

“Bloody _ fucking Void,” _ser Haider swore from behind her as they listened, kneeling at the door. Lewdness aside, she was inclined to agree with the sentiment.

It was... _ revelry. _ Behind the sounds of war and death were peals of laughter, shrieks of joy as man became beast, as the potential of the mortal soul was corrupted beyond saving. 

Over it all, a single voice commanded attention. _ “Do you accept the gift that I offer?” _

Ser Delves leaned in uneasily, his breathing shallower due to his cracked ribs. “Is that—?” he whispered.

“Uldred,” she answered as her blood began to boil. She tamped down the righteous fury that flowed over her—when she finally laid her hands upon him, may it be _ justice, _ not vengeance. 

_ “Dirthara-ma, falon.” _

“Cyrellion—!” ser Rutherford started, sword twitching in his bloodied fist. 

“You know him?” ser Delves asked, disbelieving. 

“I—Yes, he’s an innocent, Captain,” he promised her. “Uldred must be—”

“Ah, Templars!” Uldred greeted them warmly from within. “Do come inside!” 

They no longer had the element of surprise, but just as well—this could be a hostage situation if ser Rutherford’s assessment was accurate. Let them witness the Maker’s mercy before His wrath. She stood, palms clasped behind her back, and nodded for ser Bright to open the door. 

At her first glance inside the chamber, she was deeply thankful their position had been given away—any attempt to seize this room, nearly filled to the brim with Maleficarum and leashed demons of varying sizes, would have failed completely. Beyond the depth of the bookshelves lining the walls, Uldred stood in the center of the room, on a raised platform with Senior Enchanter Cyrellion, who took in the knights’ appearance with only a raised brow and a calculating expression. 

“I must admit, I’ve always admired the tenacity of the Order,” Uldred mused, clearly ready to gloat. She had no interest in indulging him.

“Stand down, Senior Enchanter,” she declared as her knights fell into formation. “Submit yourself to the Order, and you will be granted a merciful death. Refuse, and you will know the wrath—”

“Spare me your _ zealotry, _ Captain—” 

“You will know the _ wrath of a woman _ who has waded through enough blood and death today to last her several lifetimes.”

The Maleficarum around her chittered like insects with their laughter.

“You think to intimidate me,” he stepped forward, one foot off the platform. “I am a _ living god!” _

Behind Uldred’s shoulder, Cyrellion gave a very slow but deliberate nod. Very well—keep him talking.

“I do not address this god,” she began, only maintaining her veneer of calm through the Maker’s grace. “I appeal to the man he was.” 

Even though she was staring down the vilest being she’d ever had the misfortune to encounter—Pride incarnate, she deduced—thank the Maker for not forcing her to lie. 

“The man is _ dead, _you—” 

“He was a man of principle. An idealist.” She pressed, keeping the room’s attention on her alone. “A man who cared so much about the future of his people, he tore open the Veil itself in the hopes of creating a better world.” 

He remained silent—put off-balance by her eulogy. “This man _ is _dead,” she continued. “And I mourn him.”

His mouth twitched. “You feel nothing for him, save contempt. Templars understand nothing else.”

Cyrellion’s sleeve fluttered minutely at his side, but the air was stagnant. Beside her, ser Rutherford renewed his grip.

“I hate the sin,” she asserted, slowly wrapping a finger around the pin of a grenade at the small of her back. _ Maker, guide my hand. _ “Not the sinner.”

He began to advance. “You can’t even—” 

A glyph formed under Uldred’s feet, suspending him mid-step, and in the stunned silence of the chamber, there was only the unmistakable _ scrape _ of a knife pulling through flesh as Cyrellion wove his own blood into the spell keeping Uldred bound. 

And damned himself for eternity. 

“Leave me!” he strained, as ribbons of red wrapped around the shimmering prison. “Find Irving!”

Demons advanced on him, and the Maleficarum were raising their staves to take him out, but Maker preserve her, she couldn’t let him fall like this. Reason failed her—morals failed her, but through the chaos of the moment, she heard His call. 

She surrendered to it and found clarity once more, sweeping her hands out in front of her and launching grenades in both directions. The blood mages began to raise barriers reflexively, but there was no spell that could shelter them from the lyrium charges. 

“Move left!” she commanded over the explosions and their accompanying cries of agony as the lyrium burned, but before they’d made it halfway to the door, their path was overrun by shades bubbling up from the floor.

She tugged a philter free from her belt, and the devils seemed to _ smell _ it—tearing through her knights before she could drain it. Rutherford and Delves were tossed like dolls to the side, and their claws carved vicious lines into Bright’s greatshield in his valiant efforts to guard her—

But then the lyrium hit, and she became a blur—moving quick as the lightning in her veins. The shades fell under her palms that now glowed so brightly, her trembling bones showed through her skin. Fear spiked—her body couldn’t sustain this forever, not at her age. But she’d make every damned moment count. The Maker would see her through this, he wouldn’t bring her home until she fulfilled her purpose. 

She flitted through the lines to where Rutherford was struggling to defend himself on the floor—unable to find his footing under the three shades battering his shield.

She smote them all in the space of a heartbeat and offered a hand to help him up—but as he rose, so did the Maleficarum at the perimeter—burned and bloody, but letting the pain power the spells they were channeling. 

She looked for Delves, but her eyes only found a mess of smoldering steel and meat where he’d fallen—_ not swift enough. _

But then fire rained down, and that was all the thought she could spare for him. Try as he might, Rutherford couldn’t shield them both, even though the flames only licked harmlessly off her armor—in her elevated state, they could have been a light summer breeze. 

“Regroup!” she yelled as more spells were loosed. 

More grenades flew towards the mages, more blood and ichor flowed from knights and demons both, and philter after philter went down like razor blades in syrup. She watched Haider cut down shade after shade that hounded her step, watched Rutherford tear through the creatures of rage hammering against Bright’s shield, abandoning control for a more instinctual mastery of both blade and talent.

But just as they mounted a defensible position in the alcove before the next door, just as the tide seemed to turn in their favor—her knights felled every demon in their measure and with every volley of lyrium charges, fewer Maleficarum rose again—the spell holding Uldred burst and Cyrellion fell limply to the floor, all breath and blood spent. 

Uldred roared in his fury, form flickering until his human appearance melted away and Pride reared its true head. Even the demons and blood mages shuddered in fear under the thundering cry. 

Pride spread its terrible arms wide, and a barrier snapped into place at the perimeter, trapping everyone and everything inside. 

The Maleficarum halted their barrage in surprise, and more than one looked upon their leader with betrayal on their faces. Leona was already on the move—bounding over Bright’s shoulder to press a charged palm against the slick barrier before the door—but it didn’t budge. 

Pride bellowed—a horrible approximation of laughter—as it fixed its dead eyes upon the Templars, sank its claws into the very fabric of the Veil and _ pulled. _

And it was only then that Leona Ewing knew true fear. 

The raw Fade beyond the tear shimmered and swam with magic—it was almost beautiful, the way the rift hung and twisted in midair, if not for the talons and gnashing teeth of the twisted creatures that roiled inside.

The mages panicked at the sight, the demons beside them howled in victory, and Leona’s blood ran colder than lyrium as she realized what was needed.

“Hold, men!” she commanded raggedly, the word tasting fouler than the ichor flying through the air as her three remaining knights fought against the bottlenecked tide that surged against them, climbing higher as Uldred retreated through the rift, leaving the lot of them to their fates.

Her fingers, already flooded with lyrium she’d ingested, trembled as she undid the bindings of her cuirass. Her final philter was designed to be taken intravenously, but she feared the situation necessitated an even more direct approach. 

She pulled the silver pendant out of her linen undershirt. The lyrium held by the slender vial within the blade shone nearly silver, it was so concentrated and pure. She remembered the day it was given to her, nearly thirty years ago, now—her predecessor, the only other Justicar she’d ever known and the last of his order, bestowed it to her on his deathbed. 

_ You will know power, that which only the Maker can command. So much that your mortal body cannot hope to contain it for long. Use it when death is imminent, when your only choice is how many foes to take with you. _

“Rutherford,” she called, as Haider and Bright formed a shield wall to keep the demons at bay—the most imperfect of barriers, but she only needed a few moments— 

The young knight turned and took in her unarmored state in alarm—blood flowed freely from his raised brow, over his bare shield arm where the vambrace had been ripped off. “Captain—”

Without pretense, she thrust the miniature blade deep into her left breast, just above her heart.

_ “Captain!” _

She gripped the arm he’d held out reflexively, fingers slipping on the bloody mail in desperation, but not pain. So much lyrium was winding through her body, she was numb to all injury, but her body’s instinctive aversion to harming itself _ had _ to be overridden for His will to be carried out. 

“Further,” she gasped, “drive it further! To the heart!”

Then their eyes met, and her heart broke over naked panic written there—Maker, he’s _ just a child... _ No, he’s a _ soldier, _she needed to remember it— 

_ “Now!” _ she pressed, bracing her other hand against his single intact pauldron, and he lifted a shaking hand to the blade half-embedded in her chest. A vehement _ forgive me _ beat its way through her thoughts, but it wasn’t the Maker she entreated. It was this _ boy _ —not even old enough for a beard—screwing his expression into something approximating bravery under blood and ichor both dried and fresh as he angled himself properly and _ pushed— _

But there was no pain—none at all as the blade pierced her heart. There was only His Light, pulsing out from her in waves, suffusing her being until she thought she’d shudder apart with its magnificence; her mortal body was as much a proper vessel for Him as a paper boat for the sun—there was so little time. 

Haider had fallen, she’d realized—no matter. Maker willing, she’d see him again in a few moments, swearing up a storm and complaining of the lack of decent ale. Surely the Maker would overlook a few venial sins for all the good work he’d done today? 

But her own was not finished—_ an effort must be made, _Greagoir had said, and it would be a sunny day in the Void before she neglected her duty to her Commander. 

She pressed a hand to the barrier over the door again—but was it a hand or a comet? The magic tore like wet paper under her radiant grip, opened just wide enough for Rutherford alone to pass—because of course, it would be him, if the Maker had chosen differently, she’d… she didn’t know what she’d have done. 

She gripped the back of Rutherford’s cuirass, and he cried out when her touch—capable of melting steel, apparently—burned against his skin. But she had enough purchase to pull him away from where ser Bright single-handedly held the line and shove him into the corridor beyond the barrier. 

She met his eyes again for only a split second—but it was enough to read his shock, the pain as she pushed the door shut. The latch melted easily under her palm and she slid to the floor, taking her first real breath in what felt like decades—her work… it was complete. 

Ser Bright stumbled to the floor before her and only as his greatshield fell did she remember the rift in the center of the room—would it remain open, or would it close before the Maker’s glory?

“Draw your last breath, my friend,” she rasped, watching the light leave his eyes. She wasn’t sure what exactly had killed him—she’d have to ask when they were together again. 

“Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky.”

The demons were shying away from her now—cowering before her radiance like they knew what was about to happen. She was pleased to find that… she herself was unafraid. And that she was _ ready. _

_“Rest..._ at the Maker’s right hand, and be forgiven.”

She breathed her last and her vision filled—becoming pure white, then other colors she had no name for as all physical sensation slipped away.

And like the quiet glow of the chantry at night, the warm press of a hand, the scent of incense on an autumn breeze… 

He called her _ home. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so Leona Ewing took on a life of her own and I kind of love her, so let me know if a one-shot of her is a thing you'd be interested in!
> 
> part 2 of the Uprising is forthcoming thanks to my darling beta - you should check out her work!


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